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hotluncheddie · 1 month

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Safe With You.

Ao3 | wc: 4.8k | Rated: E | tags: Daddy kink, under-negotiated kink, hurt/comfort, crying, sub Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson is a sweetheart, masturbation

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The credits are rolling, names passing on the screen of Eddie’s little tv, movie over.

Steve squeezes Eddie’s fingers where they’re tangled with both of his own. His head had migrated to Eddie’s shoulder around 20 minutes in, all tension seeping from him with one of Eddie’s thighs slung over his own and Eddie’s arm around his waist.

He’d missed nights like this, with someone, in easy closeness, being someone’s boyfriend. Something inside Steve always yearned for it, to be allowed this, something like it. Soft and domestic.

(He’s been blessed with his platonic closeness with Robin. But she’s less tactile than Eddie, they hold hands and hug but the full body blanket of contact isn’t something she can stomach for long.)

It feels extra special tonight, somehow, after the day they’d had, because the Corroded Coffin boys were over to hang out and talk shop for their characters. Steve had come over around three, after his shift and part way through a heated discussion about trolls. He busied himself with decompressing, puttering around and reading Eddie’s comics on the sofa - leaving them to it. But every once in a while Eddie would call out for him to pick a number between one and ten. Or would scamper over with a box that had a dice in it, asking Steve to roll, kissing him on the head once he had. Steve felt so special; to be allowed to exist in that space, have Eddie want him there, including him as much as Steve was comfortable. It was so nice.

And then Steve was allowed to stay, the other boys leaving with waves and see you soon’s and it wasn’t even mentioned that Steve would go too. Instead Eddie came and draped himself over him, snuggling into his neck and talking about what they should make for dinner. Those moments seemed to cause another piece of Steve’s burned red insides to scab, peel, and revel itself fresh pink - on its way to healed.

After Nancy something had curdled within him. Followed by the long hot summer where the main sense memory he retained on his skin was that of hard knuckles and big stinging palms. Then followed were those long months full of girls, here and there, who would touch his hand or his dick; and it was nice, until the post orgasm haze melted and it was time for one of them to leave. Steve left alone again. His body aching for something else. Something different.

Now Steve feels syrupy and loose, fuzzy around the edges: a Polaroid that got wet with the lake water it captured. He fiddles with the rings on Eddie’s fingers. Eddie’s other hand having migrated up to his hair, scratching lightly behind his ear.

‘Want to stay over?’ Eddie asks quietly.

Steve did. He really really did.

‘If that’s okay?’

‘C’mon.’ Eddie stands, motions for Steve to follow along, grabbing his hand again and holding it behind him as he leads them down the little hall to his room.

Eddie puts on a record and some old smoky blues song filters through the room. He makes his way back over, swaying his hips, humming softly, taking Steve by the waist and turning them in a slow sort of waltz.

Steve thinks, for not the first time and definitely not the last, that Eddie, his boyfriend, is so so beautiful. Free and handsome and earth-shatteringly charming.

Eddie’s hands slip up Steve’s sides, finger trailing over his scarred waist, taking Steve’s T-shirt with them, pulling it up and off over his head, dropping it to the floor at their bare feet.

‘What’s this?’ Steve asks, smiling, eyes half lidded. Eddie’s lips work their way soft and slow down the muscle of his neck, still humming softly along with the song. Steve’s own hands flutter from Eddie’s shoulders to draping around his neck.

‘Nothin, s’late, we should get some sleep.’ Eddie says low and lazy. His soft lips make their way back up to Steve’s cheek. All the times in the world they seemed to say.

Eddie, to Steve, had taken to being someone’s boyfriend even more than he ever would’ve expected. Hopelessly romantic and achingly attentive; it regularly fills Steve’s chest close to bursting. These few months of being with Eddie have been so fun and Steve laughs more than he can remember. It all just feels different with Eddie, he feels different. That things aren’t quite so hard, that it doesn’t all have to be so scary.

‘Sleep huh?’ Steve asks, lips on Eddie’s skin, on his salty temple. His own fingertips grazing shoulder blaze, grazing scar, grazing bone and skin.

Eddie’s eyes are dark chocolate, his mouth set in a half grin that never seems to leave. Never seems to leave when he’s looking at Steve. ‘Yup, just helpin’ you get ready.’ Eddie says, pinky finger ghosting along the waistband of Steve’s jeans.

Steve dips his chin forward, attaching his mouth to Eddie’s, lips already parted and tongue already searching. Eddie’s hand comes up into his hair, the other slipping into the back pocket of his jeans, squeezing, gripping.

They kiss and they kiss and the blues plays on, the air-con rattling and a stray cat meows in the distance.

‘Tell me something.’ Eddie says between kisses, quiet and deep and Steve feels like there’s whisky in his belly, thrumming through his veins. Drunk on Eddie Munson. ‘Tell me what you like, show me. Let me help baby.’ His hooded eyes pull Steve in, fingers stroking hairs away from his forehead and lips pressing kisses to his cheekbones.

Steve doesn’t know how to answer, how to ask for something he wants. ‘No, I. Te-tell me what you like.’ He says, pulling Eddie’s shirt up and off, giving himself a moment away from eye contact, away from the vulnerability Eddie draws out of him.

Eddie lets his T-shirt be tossed away, pulling Steve close and swaying them again gently. Slowing the moment once more. ‘Mmm, I like lots of things. Like making pretty boys feel good, for one.’ He ponders, hand soothing up and down Steve’s back. ‘And you, honey, are the prettiest guy I’ve ever seen.’ He smiles, teeth glinting in the soft lamplight.

Steve ducks his head as his cheeks flush, smiling, hiding in Eddie’s shoulder.

‘Let me make you feel good, hm? Tell me something you like, something you enjoy, or always wanted to try.’ Eddie asks quiet and slow into Steves hair, hugging their bodies close.

The first thought to Steve’s head makes him swallow. The first thought to Steve’s head makes him burn.

‘It’s embarrassing.’ He whispers, face hot and he has the sudden urge to cry. To kick and scream and stomp his foot. To curl up in a ball and not say anything more.

It’s a word he’s thought about, for a while, secretly. He would think about it with girls - the few who took a little more charge, who threaded their hands in his hair and pulled. Thought about it after he realised boys could be his, could be something he finally let himself feel. Thought about it alone in the shower, moaning quietly, fingers in his mouth, water trailing across his skin. Thought about it and flushed, belly churning, aching. He thought about it once, came, cried, weeped into his pillow for everything it could mean. Everything he wanted along with the word, tantalising and terrifying and wrapped up in ugly puss-filled parts of his past. Who he is, how he grew up. A tangled mess that’s he’s too scared to try and tease apart.

Eddie guides his face back out, cradling Steve’s cheeks in his palms. ‘Want to look after you, that’s all I’ve ever wanted Stevie. Baby, it’s all I want to do.’ He says, earnest, kissing Steve softly on the mouth.

‘You, I don’t. Ho-how can you be so?’ He mumbles wetly, losing it, floating away under Eddie’s lips.

‘Like you so much Stevie, Sweetheart. Always mean it. Tell me what you want baby. What do you need?’

Steve bites his lip, feels emotions choking in the back of his throat, solidifying into something that’s maybe not so bitter, maybe not so bad. If the trust unfurling in his heart at the soft press of Eddie’s fingertips could tell him anything, it’s that maybe Eddie can handle it - him - the mix of things that are begging to spill. The word, that means so much somehow.

‘Eddie.’ Steve whispers, as lips return to his neck. Ringed fingers undo his jeans and they slip down his hips to pool at his feet. ‘Eddie.’ He whimpers, shivering, as Eddie reaches the juncture of his neck and shoulder, biting and sucking and leaving a sweet bruise of promise marked onto Steve’s skin.

‘Tell me baby.’ Eddie’s thumb presses into Steve’s hipbone, the other hand held firm to the back of his neck, keeping them close.

‘Eddie, Eddie.’ Another bite, their bodies sharing heat and tears sting the corners of Steve’s eyes. His blood feels molten, he feels sticky and heavy and flush. Eddie’s hands on his neck and shoulders and waist, their legs tangling, toes brushing toes, Eddie’s belt buckle pressing and catching in Steve’s happy trail. Another bite, another caress, his Eddie all over him, holding him, loving him.

‘Daddy.’ Steve sobs, whines, the damn breaking. All his fears spilling out, fizzing bubbles in the air.

‘Oh.’ Eddie groans, growls, squeezing Steve in his arms. ‘Oh you don’t even know do you? How precious you are for me.’ And he’s kissing Steve again, savouring and devout. Moaning into Steve’s lips, drinking the word, eating the confession. Taking and swallowing that little part of Steve’s own soul.

Eddie holds his hips, grinding, seeking Steve out in his boxers, denim rough and Eddie’s length is so hard against his own. ‘Please.’ Steve moans.

Eddie releases his lips, bringing Steve’s hands up to kiss his palms, nipping his fingertips. His hands wrap around Steve’s wrists forming a solid circle, dwarfing them in his palms, thumb smoothing over pulse point. Something about it makes Steve feel claimed and sticky. Eddie’s hands big enough to trap him like that, hold him. Something in Steve never wants him to let go.

Eddie steps them backwards until knees hit the bed, pulling at Steve’s wrists so he gets the hint and lays down. Eddie falling with him, crowning him against the mattress, wrists pinned either side of his head. Kissing Steve again and again, licking onto his mouth.

Steve arches into the touch, hungry and seeking friction on his aching cock. But Eddie’s thigh between his leg stays maddeningly out of reach. Steve’s groans turn into whimpers as Eddie bites his lower lip and pulls.

He’s panting by the time Eddie starts kissing over his cheek and down his neck, hands releasing to instead grope at his hairy pecs and Eddie keeps kissing until he can suck a nipple into his mouth. Steve arching again, whining weakly as he buries his hands in Eddie’s curls.

Eddie’s fingers follow the curve of his waist down to the waistband of his boxers. Pulling his mouth away from the now red, sensitive bud. His eyes bright and sparkling as he looks up and Eddie presses a kiss to Steve’s belly button before sitting up onto his knees. pulling at Steve’s boxers and lifting his legs up along with them. The boxers thrown onto the floor with their shirts, and Steve’s ankles stay resting on Eddie’s shoulders.

‘Feel good baby?’ Eddie asks, kissing the soft skin of the ankle bone by his face. Steve nods, he feels blotchy and flushed but so so happy. Can’t help smiling up at Eddie. ‘Gonna be good for me?’

Steve reaches out for him, Eddie tangling their fingers and squeezing. ‘Who you gonna be good for?’ He asks, cheeky and lovely and light.

‘You.’ Steve manages, wriggling a little, bringing his free hand up to his mouth.

‘Who am I?’ Eddie grips the meat of Steve’s thigh, shuffling closer, bending Steve in half.

Steve looks up at him, Eddie’s face looming over his own, his sweet lovely Eddie. ‘Daddy.’ He whispers, own fingertips tracing his lips, ears hot and cock so hard it’s leaking onto his belly.

‘Good boy.’ Eddie praises, kissing Steve’s legs that are still around his face. Working his way upward until he can lay them gently back down on the bed. ‘Want you to teach me baby, show me how you feel good.’ Eddie says sweetly, laying down next to him. Crowding in close and kissing Steve’s shoulder.

Steve lets his knees fall apart. ‘You’re gonna watch?’ He asks softly, waiting for Eddie’s nod before he grips himself. Stroking long and slow across his length, biting his lips. Finally able to touch, his fingers twist and tweak the head, pressing where shaft meets tip. Just the way he likes it. Steve groans.

‘That’s it baby, don’t think, just do what feels good.’

And Steve looks at Eddie, leaning up on his elbow, head on his palm. Dark brown eyes eating Steve whole.

He sinks. Some part of his brain slipping away into darkness. Everything a black pool of sensation and need. Soft and warm and floating. ‘Daddy.’ He says softly, slurring and keening and weak. He feels so needy, so good and free and down.

‘Yeah baby, Daddy’s watching.’ And Steve moans, eyes closing again, fingers tightening, squeezing and teasing and he brings his hand up, sticks his finger in his mouth, tasting the salty slick and letting spit coat his digits, laving at his own palm.

Gripping himself again he arches at the new glide, hips rolling as a deep moan vibrates from the base of his chest.

‘Do you ever touch here? That feel good?’ And Eddie’s fingers slip over and past Steve’s balls, dipping into the skin of his taint, pressing and seeking and sharp pleasure spikes up Steve’s spine. Has him writhing on the bed.

‘Oh you do.’ And Eddie’s smiling, almost awed. ‘Baby likes that. Have you fingered yourself to Stevie?’ He asks.

The words get stuck, sticking like peanut butter on Steve’s tongue. ‘Yeh.’ He manages, huffy and weak. ‘Sometimes, but, s’hard, to, ah ah, get the angle right.’ And he reaches down, as if to show Eddie, as if to do more, be good, be better.

But Eddie smacks his hand away lightly. ‘I’ll find you the best angle another night baby, you just focus on showing me how to use that pretty cock of yours yeah?’ And Steve moans, feeling wet and dripping and silken. Eddie’s fingers pressing and searching, a dry pressure on his hole, stroking the course hairs and thumbing that part again. ‘Let Daddy do the thinking, you just be pretty for me. You have such nice hands baby. Do you like it, like playing with the tip most?’ He murmurs in Steve’s ear. He can feel Eddie’s own hard on pressing into his hip. Feels where he’s leaking over his own fingers.

Eddie’s watching him, rapt, as Steve switches hands and brings his dripping fingers up to his own mouth to suck clean. His eyes feel heavy, his thoughts gooey and slow but he hears Eddie’s sharp inhale of breath, feels saliva pool on his tongue and soak his fingers further. The presence of something in his mouth makes his hips roll and he fucks up into his own fist.

‘You’re so fucking hot. Baby, oh my god, looks so good when you let go like this.’ Eddie babbles, almost talking more to himself than directly to Steve, his denim clad cock grinding ever so slightly again.

The compliments sit heavy and squirming in Steve’s gut, make him moan loudly around his fingers, eyelashes fluttering as he tries to keep his gaze on Eddie. Hand speeding up, squeezing his shaft and twisting the head and he feels a fire building inside him.

‘That’s it baby, let me hear you, s’okay, s’okay to let go.’ Eddie whispers, lips on Steve’s cheeks, kissing up into his hair and Steve needs to feel him, needs to be close, closer, he’s right on the edge.

He takes his spit soaked fingers out of his mouth, reaching for Eddie’s jaw, feeling the roughness of new stubble against his palm. ‘Can I? Daddy can I?’ He begs, desperate. Turning his head so their eyes lock together.

‘Let go baby boy, come for Daddy.’ Eddie says nuzzling into Steve’s hand, taking the tips of a finger into his mouth and biting.

Steve does. He arches, muscles tensing, orgasming long and deep and groaning. He squeezes his eyes shut as he milks himself, shifting until it hurts. Eddie’s fingers ghost back up and over his balls, massaging the goop into his pubes, stroking the hair by his hip. ‘My good boy, so good for me baby.’ Eddie coos, kissing Steve’s crown and his hips are still grinding, slow and sultry and aching.

Steve’s panting, floating and filthy and he needs Eddie to come too, needs him to finish, needs his show to have been useful. ‘Want. Want Daddy’s come.’ He breaths, whining, panting, feels like he could cry.

‘Nah, sweet Prince, want you to feel good. Did it feel good?’ Eddie dismisses, circling a nipple with his fingertips.

And Steve actually might be crying now, he thinks, sniffing. ‘Yeah but, but you need to feel good too.’ He whines.

‘I did baby I did. Want tonight to just be for you, and you did so well, such a good boy for me.’ Eddie placates, kissing Steve’s cheek.

Steve sniffles, whines, reaching for the fly of Eddie’s jeans, he can still feel Eddie’s half hard cock pressed up against him. ‘But, but Daddy. You have to as well, make you finish, be good, feel good too.’ He reasons, babbling desperately, slurring and pleading now with Eddie.

Eddie grips Steve’s wrists, gentle, but firm, making his freeze. ‘Steve, no. I don’t want to, not right now. I just want to take care of you.’ And Eddie’s voice has a hardness to it that Steve knows is final.

He crumples, the fight leaving him as he curls up into Eddie’s chest. He just, he’s supposed to help, it’s not supposed to all be about him. Before he knows it a sob chokes out from behind his teeth, forcing its way out between his heavy tongue and lips.

Eddie’s arms wrap around him instantly, folding Steve into his chest. ‘S’okay baby, let it out. My good boy, Daddy’s good boy.’ Eddie breaths, rocking them slightly. And that just makes Steve cry harder. His foggy thoughts tangling together, muddy and thick and why does it hurt when Eddie’s so sweet like this, why does it ache to be held so gently and why does Steve feel like his tantrum is finally being heard. He’s finally being seen and coddled and tended to with kid gloves. Eddie’s here, his Daddy’s here.

‘It’s okay, it’s gonna be okay.’ Eddie whispers, squeezing Steve in his arms. ‘I’ve got you.’

Steve bawls.

When Steve wakes the room is dark. He rolls over, releasing the pillow that was clutched to his chest. The only source of light comes from the ancient yellow streetlight out front; peaking through the old blinds and leaving patches of orange across the carpet.

The bed is empty, but warm and Steve realises he’s clean, with a fresh pair of Eddie’s boxers pulled on.

He groans, pushing his face into the pillow. Cheeks no longer tacky with tears but his throat is dry from them. He’s tired, and embarrassed. But, while his chest aches, it’s got that familiar lightness that can come from a cry like the one he had.

He hears the faucet pipes rattle in the kitchen, hears a mug being set on the counter. Steve bites his lip, gets up and pulls on one of Eddie’s old sweatshirts from a pile of clothes strewn across the desk. He takes a deep breath and walks through to the kitchen.

Eddie is leaning against the counter, curled in on himself and biting at his thumbnail. Staring through the pot of water on the stove.

Steve steps closer, fingers pulling at a hole in the sweatshirts ribbing, Eddie jumps slightly as he notices him.

‘Hey.’ Eddie says, in soft surprise. Stepping up close and tucking a lock of hair behind Steve’s ear. ‘Did I wake you? M’sorry, how are you feeling? Oh, do you want tea? I’ll make you tea.’ And he’s stepping away again, flitting around the cabinets and muttering to himself. He gets another mug out and laughs humourlessly. ‘Was already making tea, stupid.’

Steve takes the mug gripped too tightly in Eddie’s fingers. ‘You okay?’ he asks, filling it up at the tap and chugging.

‘Yeah, ‘cause. Are you okay?’ Eddie says quickly.

Steve turns back, leaning on the counter himself, can’t really look Eddie in the eyes. ‘I’m, yeah. Just.’ He groans, pulling his hand down his face. ‘I can’t believe, I acted like.’ He huffs. ‘I’m, yeah. Sorry.’ He sets the mug down next to him, shifting up to sit on the counter, more of an excuse to still not look Eddie in the eye.

‘Stevie, I-‘ Eddie starts, but the water is boiling, pulling his attention. He curses gently as he turns the stove off and fills their mugs. He’s made the same tea he’d made that one time Steve came over with a headache and Eddie took the roll of nursing him back to health super seriously.

It makes Steve smile down at his lap at the memory. But it shifts and he frowns, he acted, he’s so embarrassed.

‘I, Eddie.’ He starts. ‘I’m sorry for, freaking out. I shouldn’t have reacted like that.’ Steve grips the mug, heat stinging his fingers. ‘I honestly don’t even know what happened, one minute it was like, amazing. Seriously. And the next I got it in my head that it would be like, a huge moral failing, and a, a betrayal or something, if I didn’t make you finish right then and there. It, yeah, I don’t even know.’ Steve finishes lamely, voice wavering.

‘Steve.’ Eddie says gently, almost sad. His hand hovers over Steve’s thigh, before drawing back and curling it up against his chest.

Steve can’t hear it yet, can’t stop. ‘You, you were saying no and I, I didn’t listen. I’m so sorry.’ He feels his throat close and his eyes sting. Swallowing it down and scrubbing roughly at his cheeks. ‘I don’t, I never want to make you feel like that, like I’d do something like that.’ he mumbles, sniffing.

Eddie scoffs, pushing away from the counter and pacing a tiny circle in the tiny trailer kitchen.

Steve flinches at the noise, upset and, he gets it. ‘I, look, I can go.’ He scoots forward so his feet hit the ground again, resigning himself to a cold drive home and even colder nights sleep.

But Eddie just groans, burying his hands in his hair and pulling, shaking his head.

‘Eddie?’ Steve starts, worried. He knows he messed up but, well.

‘You, you’re just, saying all that like it was your fault. Like you did anything.’ Eddie bursts, voice wet and desperate and Steve’s mouth closes with a soft click.

He’s stopped pacing, palms stretched out and upwards like Eddie’s begging Steve for answers, like Steve’s knows what’s going on. Eddie must see some of the confusion, the little bit of fear, in Steve’s expression because he draws back in on himself, hands clasping at the back of his neck and elbows pulled in close.

He looks down at his feet, mumbling sadly. ‘I just, I can’t believe you trusted me with something like that and first thing I go and do is make you cry.’ And his voice sounds wet, and pained and Steve doesn’t even think as he steps forward and pulls Eddie into his arms. Shoulder of the sweatshirt dampening as Eddie clings to him.

Steve leads them back to the bedroom with gentle fingers around Eddie’s wrist. Putting the record they were listening to earlier back on and stepping in close again.

He drapes his arms around Eddie’s shoulders and his big brown Bambi eyes look so damn nervous it nearly breaks Steve’s heart.

‘I’ve never done that with anyone before, never said that word.’ Steve starts, brushing some hair away from Eddie’s cheek. ‘But I did today, you wanna know why?’ He asks, trying to keep his voice level, trying to soothe both their nerves.

Eddie shakes his head, hands migrating to Steve’s hips like a reflex he’s not aware of. Steve takes a deep breath, resting his forehead against Eddie’s for a beat.

‘Because I felt safe.’ Steve says, eyes wetting again despite himself. He decides to smile through it, pulling back to take all of Eddie in. ‘I had the best day with you Ed’s, how you included me with your friends, and held me while we watched that movie. Cooking dinner together and you kept kissing me on the forehead.’ He brings a hand up, combing his fingers through Eddie’s curls, pushing them over his shoulder. Eyes trailing over Eddie’s red cheekbones and scarred earlobe as the vulnerability of eye contact becomes too much.

‘And, and then in here you were so sweet, so sweet like you always are, attentive and kind and sexy and, I. I feel safe with you Eddie. You asked and I told you and, like.’ Steve swallows. ‘That word is, it’s really vulnerable for me, I guess. I don’t know why it turns me on so much or why I reacted the way I did but I just think I knew that you’d look after me and you did. You did and it was wonderful, until it maybe wasn’t but that had nothing to do with you, just, something to try. Or like, do different next time, yeah? If, I mean, if you’re okay with there being a next time. Obviously, you might. Sorry.’ Steve looses steam and looks down, focuses on where Eddie’s collarbone peaks out of his old sleep shirt, instead of what might be happening on his face.

‘Stevie.’ Eddie says softly, bringing his fingers up to Steve’s chin, tilting his face back upwards.

Eddie’s cheeks are flush, his eyes tacky with the remnants of tears. But they also sparkle with something else. Something joyous and lovely and Steve thinks a whole world of stars might exist within Eddie Munson’s eyes, a whole galaxy of possibilities.

Steve feels love bloom inside him, swelling his rib cage and filling his veins. He moves in just as Eddie does; their lips reconnecting, feeling and seeking. Bliss-filed. And when they pull apart, sharing breath as their noses brush together Steve can’t help but smile. Smile so big his cheeks hurt. He smiles and leans forward and kisses Eddie with more teeth than lips, kisses and kisses and kisses.

Until Eddie threads his fingers through the hair at the base of Steve’s skull, slowing them, pulling them apart gently. ‘Come on.’ He says, leading Steve back to bed.

And Eddie pulls them down, manoeuvring until they’re forehead to forehead and knee to knee. Bracketing each other, sharing air and space and skin.

‘I’m sorry for crying.’ Steve whispers eventually, into their warm silence.

‘I’m sorry for making you cry.’ Eddie whispers back.

‘You really didn’t. I liked it, all of it, that word just makes me feel crazy.’ Steve reiterates, threading his calf between Eddie’s.

‘You liked crying?’ Eddie teases, no longer tense, no longer sad. And Steve smacks him lightly, fighting his grin.

And their comfortable silence stretches again, until Steve sighs. ‘The crying, it, really wasn’t you. I just like, wasn’t listening and didn’t really get that you could just, uh. Could just want to focus on me.’ He says, fiddling with the neckline of Eddie’s T-shirt.

Eddie grabs his fingers, kissing them and moves closer, so Steve’s thigh slots between Eddie’s bony knees, their ankles tangling. ‘What about before, the rest of it, did you like that?’

Steve rolls his eyes, squirming, pulling Eddie in by the waist. ‘Yeah. Liked it a lot.’ His cheeks feel warm. ‘Did uh, did you?’

‘Sure did sugar.’ Eddie purrs and Steve squirms again. ‘Got so damn sweet for me, letting me take care of you.’ He murmurs into Steve’s cheek, kissing it.

‘God, you’re gonna give me a complex if you keep saying shit like that.’ Steve groans, covering his hot face with his hands.

But Eddie pulls them away, hands wrapped around Steve’s wrists again, gripping them, kissing him quick and soft. Steve’s eyelashes flutter, sinking once more into the blanket of loveliness that is being here. Being held by Eddie Munson.

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Taglist: @scoops-aboy86 @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @pearynice @whimsicalwadewinstonwilson @marvel-ous-m

@chickensinrainboots @cheesedoctor

#im so nervous excited for u to read this!!!#it feels like my special baby - ive been editing it and changing it so much #but its here!!!#:) !#hotlunch #they're so good at communicating #they're in love #steddie #steve x eddie #my fic #steddie fic

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remarcely · 2 months

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Batmanfic Prompt: WHAT IF Superman heard Jason come back to life?

The coffin, unfortunately, was so comfortable that when Jason woke up inside it he’d been tempted to roll over and go back to sleep. It was only when he knocked his elbow onto something hard and way too close that he opened his eyes. He didn’t see anything, they hadn’t exactly put a nightlight in for him, but he could still feel and his hands scrambled to touch everything inside the box. He knew that he was wearing a suit buttoned all the way up, which was weird because he never did the top button, and there was a slab of something solid laying flat above his face.

He had to bend his arms to press his palms against it, not having enough space to do much else, and shoved. It didn’t move so he shoved again and then again, the third attempt using his knees to try and force it open. No matter what Jason did, it wouldn’t budge.

It was as he laid there, panting, and growing dizzy for some reason, that he began to remember. He had no memory of crawling in a box or getting stuck under his bed, but he could recall a warehouse. There had been laughter, blood, and a steady beep as the countdown of a bomb grew ever closer. Jason swallowed hard as panic started to take hold. He hit the lid again, frantically this time, and thrashed his entire body in his desperate bid to escape because he knew where he was. He was packed underneath six feet of dirt and trapped in a box that no one had thought about putting air holes in.

Somewhere in his lashing out he’d begun to cry and plead to closed in air. He shouted for Bruce, begging to be let out and that he was sorry, and screamed for Alfred to find him. Jason even called out for Dick, even though they’d barely gotten on for the last few months after years of nothing but bitterness from the older boy.

His chest heaved as he hyperventilated with little oxygen to take in and, with his list of potential saviours running low, he recalled something Bruce had told him. If he was ever in trouble and Batman or Nightwing were too far away, then he should always shout for-

“SUPERMAN!” Jason wailed, slamming his head into the coffins lid and clawing at the wood. His nails ached and bled, but he continued to scratch away “PLEASE, SUPERMAN! BRUCE! HELP ME!”

His movements grew weaker and his head pounded. Jason slumped against the cushioning and, with his limbs too heavy to lift, sobbed. His tears rolled down his face, trailing over his cheeks and past his ears, to soak into the pillow beneath his head. He was dead. He was dead and no one was coming for him.

At least when he’d been half-beaten to death and inhaling smoke, he’d held onto hope that Batman would find him in time.

As Jasons eyes slowly closed and his inhales and exhales felt as if they were minutes apart, he heard something. It was muffled and hard to make out but, for a moment, Jason was sure he could hear someone calling his name.

It was midday in Metropolis and Clark Kent was on his lunch break. He was three bites into a disappointing BLT sandwich with far too much mayonnaise when he heard a voice, far outside the bounds of his city, call for Superman. That wasn’t rare in itself, neither was how young and distressed they sounded unfortunately, it was after the second time they called for Superman that Clark flinched.

“SUPERMAN! BRUCE! HELP ME!”

By the time his sandwich landed on the breakroom table, he was gone.

The voice had stopped screaming for help but Clark could hear them crying uncontrollably and that was enough to track down the source. He broke the sound barrier as he flew into Gotham and the ground was dug a few inches deep as he landed. Clark whirled around for the crying child, drowning out every other noise in the world to focus on them, and looked down with dread. They were underground. In a graveyard.

Clark raised his eyesight to the headstone planted above the child and stumbled. In expensive marble, carved in swirling font, was a familiar name and all of a sudden, the person screaming out for a ‘Bruce’ made alarming sense.

‘Here Lies Jason Todd’

Before he knew what he was doing, Clark was tearing away at the earth in chunks, throwing it behind him without care (and hopefully avoiding the surrounding headstones). As he moved deeper into the ground he lost the need for his enhanced hearing. While it was faint, Clark could make out the sound of Jason weakly crying out. He reached the coffin in a matter of seconds and didn’t hesitate to tear the lid away, breaking through its seal with ease.

Laid out on white satin lining, stained by red where his hands rested at his sides, was Jason Todd- oxygen deprived and passed out, but alive nonetheless.

“It’s going to be alright.” Clark whispered to the boy as he knelt down and carefully lifted him into his arms “I’ve got you, kiddo, you’re going to be just fine.”

As soon as Jason was securely tucked to his chest, Clark launched upwards and in the direction of Gotham’s nearest hospital.

#catatonic jason todd #bruce wayne #batfamily #batman #fanfiction writer #fanfiction #fanfic #batman fanfiction #dc fanfic #batman prompt #superman #clark kent #superman fanfiction #jason todd prompt #jason todd #resurrected jason todd #i have not edited this and refuse to do so #:)

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lipglossanon · 1 year

Text

With Devils Inside Me

꒰ ͜͡➸ ꒰ ͜͡➸ ꒰ ͜͡➸ ꒰ ͜͡➸ ꒰ ͜͡➸ ꒰ ͜͡➸ ꒰ ͜͡➸ ꒰ ͜͡➸

Dark Stepdad!Leon S. Kennedy x Virgin fem!reader

For the anon who asked for virgin reader! Leon is very dark in this compared to my others so I hope you like it!! 🫣

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, dark Leon, stepcest, creeper Leon, mean Leon, dirty talk, unprotected sex, creampie, oral (f receiving), Leon has a dark breeding kink, unwanted pregnancy kink ? not sure how to label it lmao

Not proofread ✌️

Title from Christmas Kids by Roar

part ii

꒰ ͜͡➸ ꒰ ͜͡➸ ꒰ ͜͡➸ ꒰ ͜͡➸ ꒰ ͜͡➸ ꒰ ͜͡➸ ꒰ ͜͡➸ ꒰ ͜͡➸

The new husband your mom acquired while you were gone over the summer is a huge surprise to you. You stayed with your dad over the course of few weeks since he’ll be gone on a business trip during your birthday. So here you are now, standing at the arrival bay in the airport closest to home waiting for your mom. You wave when you see her, but you also notice the tall, muscular man standing directly behind her.

“Honey!” She smiles and pulls you into a hug, “oh it’s so good to see you again! I have some big news to share.”

You smile confusedly as she grabs the man’s hand. Your gaze moves from their clasped hands to his face, feeling a thrill of surprise at his dark blue eyes staring straight at you.

“This is Leon! We eloped a few weeks ago,” she gushes, showing you the new ring on her finger, “he moved in with us so no worries on having a new room,” she titters, completely missing the heated way his eyes drag down your body.

You smile awkwardly, “Oh uh that’s great, um, congrats mom. A-and it’s nice to meet you, Leon.”

“It’s so nice to finally meet you, sweetheart,” his low voice gives you goosebumps, “your mom talks about you nonstop.”

“Oh, stop, I do not,” she giggles, patting his wide chest, “can you grab her bags, Leon?”

Your mom links your arms together as Leon brushes past you to grab your luggage. You catch a whiff of his cologne then your mom is tugging you along, chattering about her summer and why she wanted to keep her new marriage a surprise for you.

“I hope you had fun with your dad, honey,” she sighs happily, “I know how much you miss him.”

You smile softly, “Yeah, we had a great time. He said when he gets back from this trip that I can come stay for a while again.”

“Oh that’ll be nice,” your mom coos, patting your cheek.

She leans in a little closer, “I know it’s not the same, but Leon’s around now so—“

“Mom,” you cringe a little, “I don’t even know him that well and—“

“But you will,” she states firmly, “all I’m saying is he’s so excited to have a daughter in his life. He said he’s always wanted someone to take care of.”

Your eyes cut back behind you to see Leon scanning the airport as you three walk out; feeling your gaze on him, his eyes snap over to you. He tilts his head and gives you a strange smile. Hurriedly, you drop his intense gaze and face the airport exit. You feel anxiousness fizzing in your chest at his behavior.

“C’mon, once we get home and you get settled, you’ll see how nice it can be.”

After that first day back home, you make sure to avoid being with Leon—alone or otherwise. His vibes are off as your friends would say. He’s always staring at you, no matter what you’re doing. You’ve subtly brought it up to your mom, not wanting to make things weird cause Leon hasn’t actually said or done anything to you. Well, outside the niceties of things like ‘how was your day?’ or ‘dinner’s ready’. He’s perfectly normal, but something about him just squicks you out.

Unfortunately, you can’t avoid him forever. Your mom rarely travels for work, but there was an emergency at a satellite branch in the next state and so she packed up her bags, kissed you on the cheek, and bid Leon goodbye at the door with a hug and a kiss. The door closing felt like the lid on a coffin snapping shut. You felt small and alone.

Leon watches your mom pull out of the drive and then turns to face you, “Guess it’s just us, huh sweetheart.”

You laugh nervously, “Guess so.”

His unnerving blue eyes just watch you with that strange smile hovering over his mouth.

“Well, I’ll go get started on dinner. I’ll call you when it’s finished,” he walks past you to the kitchen, brushing his fingers along your arm, “don’t be late, sweetheart.”

You hold your breath until he’s out of sight and then let it go in a shudder. Walking over into the living room, you curl up on the couch and put some mindless show on the tv. You scroll through your phone, browsing through your friend’s updates and random news until the hair on the back of your neck raises. You jerkily turn your head to look behind you and see Leon leaning in the doorframe, staring—always staring—at you.

“Was just about to let you know dinner’s ready,” he smiles crookedly, eyes empty, “wanna go wash up while I set the table?”

“S-sure,” you clear your throat and shakily stand on your legs, “I’ll be there in sec.”

He hums and turns back into the kitchen leaving you to anxiously make your way to the bathroom to wash your hands. You gaze into the mirror and see your wide eyes peering back, anxiousness written all over your features. You pat some cold water on our cheeks and dry them off. Cutting off the light, you head back over to the dining room.

You frown as you see your normal seat is empty; Leon has you sitting beside him, where your mom would usually be. You walk over to the seating arrangement and jump when Leon brushes your arm.

“Here,” he murmurs next to your ear as he pulls the seat out for you.

“Uh, t-thanks,” your voice shakes as you sit down.

His fingertips graze the back of your neck as he situates your chair. You shiver and lean forward, pretending to fiddle with your glass. Glancing from the corner of your eye, you see a smirk flicker over Leon’s face before he schools his expression. You can feel your heart in your throat.

“I hope we can get along the few days your mom will be gone, sweetheart,” he speaks, his voice low as he sits down next to you.

You give him a weak smile, “I-I’m sure we will.”

He hums noncommittally, ignoring the food on his plate to take the hand you have closest to him.

“You’re trembling, pretty girl, you feeling okay?” His voice is all rough concern but his eyes are wicked.

You softly try to tug your hand back, but he has it in a firm grip.

“Oh uh, yeah, I-I haven’t been f-feeling too well. Think I got a headache,” you wince a little as he squeezes your fingers, “maybe I should go lay down or something.”

You watch with sick fascination as you see his demeanor shift from lax to alert. His eyes are dark and his lips twitch into a smile.

“I think that would be best, sweetheart. C’mon let me take you to bed.”

You stand up quickly, nearly tripping over your chair, “Ahh, no I’m fine really.”

You laugh but it sounds a little manic even to your ears, “I uh I’ll be just fine, but thanks.”

He frowns at you and stands from his chair too. You feel cornered but try your absolute best not to show it.

“I really think I should help you, sweetheart,” he looks at you with hungry eyes, “you know, I’ve always wanted a babygirl to take care of.”

“O-oh? Mom m-mentioned you always wanting t-to have a d-daughter to take care of,” you smile shakily, swallowing at the way he’s tracking your every move.

The smile is slow to overtake his features, but it makes your heart rabbit in your chest.

“She did? Well, I did say babygirl. I guess you could infer daughter from that,” he chuckles, no mirth in the sound, “always wanted a pretty girl of my own, a sweet babygirl who just needs daddy to take care of her.”

You can’t hold back the gasp as you push away from the table and back into the living room, not taking your eyes off of Leon.

“Aw, don’t be that way sweetheart,” he coos, slowly stalking forward, “you can’t imagine how lucky I feel at finding your mom; I almost dumped her, but then she springs your picture on me. Such a sweet little thing, but sadly wouldn’t be back til the end of the summer.”

He continues to slowly follow you as you make your way to the front door, afraid if you turn around and run that he’ll grab you.

“So I bid my time til that sweet looking girl comes home. And if I fix it to where I’m more of a permanent figure in her life, all the better,” he smirks, “no offense, sweetheart, but your mom is only a means to an end.”

Your eyes are wide and panicked, darting to the couch you can see where you left your phone not thinking anything of it.

“Well as much fun as this is, think it’s time to wrap it up,” he pauses and rolls his shoulders back.

You turn and run for the door, but Leon catches you in next to no time. Wrapping his bulky arms around you, he easily lifts you from the ground. You scream but it’s cut short as he moves one hand to cover your mouth.

“Nuh uh, sweetheart,” he clicks his tongue, “I’m afraid none of that.”

He scents your hair and groans, “So fucking sweet. Now I’m going to ask you something and you better answer me honestly cause it can get very nasty very quick.”

You nod your head, tears leaking from your eyes blurring your vision.

He chuckles, “Good girl, god I knew you’d be perfect. You a virgin, baby? Daddy needs to know how to treat you.”

Sobbing harder, you nod.

You feel his hold tighten around you, “Fuck. I’m just the luckiest daddy in the whole world, huh.”

Your legs kick as you feel yourself hyperventilating. Twisting your head you try to move his hand, nostrils flaring as your breath quickens.

“Shh, shh, baby, it’s okay,” he soothes you, “I’m going to move my hand but if you try to yell, I’m gonna be very upset.”

Nodding you agree, tears and snot running down your face. He moves his palm away but doesn’t let up on the hold he has on your waist. You breathe in a deep, gasping wheeze trying to calm your racing heart.

“There’s my good girl,” he pets your hair away from your face, “now we’re gonna go upstairs. I’ll put you down once we make it to the bedroom.”

A sob slips past your lips but you don’t do anything to fight his hold as he carries you upstairs to his room—the room he shares with your mom. A whole new slew of tears stream from your eyes, breath hitching on every exhale. He enters the room, shuts and locks the door behind him with an actual lock and key. You feel defeated looking at the heavy ornate lock.

He walks over to the bed and sets you down on it carefully. He tucks the key away in the nightstand, eyes watching you watch him.

“Don’t even think about it, sweetheart,” he pats your cheek softly, a hard look in his eyes, “it won’t end well.”

Sniffling, you nod yes.

“Good girl,” he purrs, eyes glinting, “really such a sweet, perfect girl for daddy.”

He slips off his shirt and jeans leaving him bare chested in a pair of briefs. You hate yourself for gawking, but you’ve never seen him in such a state of undress. His abs flex as he shifts his jeans down his thick thighs; you drag your gaze down further and see the outline of his cock filling out his briefs. God he wasn’t even hard and he’s already so big. A sick thrill of arousal pulses in your clit. Flushing, you can’t stop staring at his muscles flexing as he folds his clothes and sets them aside.

“C’mon, baby, let’s lay down to help with that headache,” the low timbre of his voice makes your nipples tighten.

You use your palm to wipe your nose and then dry the tears off of your face, feeling disgust war with your arousal as you lay down with Leon pressed along your side.

He doesn’t do anything more than hold you, running his fingertips over the bridge of your nose, across your cheekbones, then lightly across your lips. After a few minutes, your muscles start to relax in his hold, the heat from his body seeping into your thin shirt and shorts.

He tugs you closer until you’re tucking your face under his chin. His hands now running up and down your back, broad palms soothing you.

Without consciously realizing it, you sigh and press closer to him, nuzzling into his neck.

“Such a sweet girl,” he rumbles, chest vibrating against yours, “gonna take good care of you, sweetheart.”

You’ve cried all the tears you can and numb acceptance has taken its place. You don’t want to make things worse for yourself so you nod.

“Okay,” your quiet voice mumbles in his neck.

Surprisingly, this is the most he does to you for the rest of the evening. Just pets you softly and murmurs praise into your hair, dropping a kiss every now and then to the crown of your head. In some dark, messed up part of your brain, you’re preening under the attention.

You’ve always shied away from attention that boys gave you; always told they’re only ever out for one thing. Your friends have come to you with tales of heartbreak or horror stories of how their boyfriends treat them. To have this older man so obsessed with you, wanting to take care of you, makes you ache with want at the same time it frightens and disturbs you.

The argument that dark part of you has put forth is what can it hurt? Your mom will eventually come home and this whole thing is going to fall apart for Leon. Why not indulge in this sick fantasy while it lasts? Let him take care of you just to see what it feels like.

You fall asleep on him like this, pulled under from the thoughts swirling in your head and Leon’s steady heartbeat in your ears. A loud buzzing sounds in the quiet and the warmth surrounding you disappears. You reach out and only touch empty space.

Groggily, you raise up on your elbows to look around. Leon is talking softy on the phone on the other side of the room. You shiver, missing the warmth of his arms. Rubbing at your eyes, you stand up from the bed. Leon’s eyes narrow at you and he walks back over to your side.

He pauses for a second as he sees you pull back the covers and then climb back into bed.

“‘m cold,” you whisper to him, pulling the blanket up to your chin.

“Let me call you back, okay? Yeah, you too. Bye.”

Setting the phone down on the nightstand, he tugs the covers up and slips underneath to lay next to you.

“Sorry, baby, had to take a call,” he smooths a thumb under your tired eyes, “didn’t know you’d get cold.”

“S’okay,” you mumble, letting him wrap his arms around you again, enjoying the warmth they bring.

“Such a good girl,” he praises, “I wonder if you can do me a little favor?”

You hum in reply.

“Can you call me daddy, sweetheart?”

Your breath hitches and that dark part you keep hidden is excited at the prospect.

“Yes, daddy,” you whisper, a hot flush of arousal making your toes curl under the covers.

“Good girl,” he kisses your forehead, “such a good girl.”

He continues to kiss you, pressing one on each cheek, on one of your ears, across your jaw, and lastly on the corner of your lips.

“Daddy,” you whine, eyes fluttering in embarrassment as you squirm from the attention.

“Shh, babygirl,” he coos at you, kissing the other corner of your lips, “let daddy treat you for being such a good girl.”

Your hands press against his pecs, not pushing or pulling him away, as he kisses across your face again. His lips move closer and closer until he’s ghosting them across your own. With your bottom lip trembling, he presses your mouths together softly.

You mewl and lightly scratch at his chest. This time he kisses you heatedly, tongue dragging across the seam of your lips. You pull back, eyes widened in surprise.

“Uh uh, sweetheart, don’t be rude,” he tsks at you, eyes narrowed in disdain.

“I’ve n-never kissed anyone,” you duck your head, “I h-haven’t done anything.”

“Baby,” he croons, hand coming up to cradle your jaw, making you look back up, “I’ll show you, teach you what daddy likes best.”

You clench your thighs together, “Okay daddy.”

The side of his mouth ticks up in a grin, “We’ll go slow, don’t want to scare my sweet girl.”

Warmth pools low in your stomach.

You’ve already decided on letting this thing happen between you two, so steeling yourself you whisper, “I’m not scared, daddy. We don’t have to go slow.”

“Oh?” his hands drag down your body until they settle on your lower back, “such a brave girl huh?”

You nod, biting your lower lip, “I can handle it.”

His cold, blue eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles crookedly, “You will one way or another, sweetheart.”

Expecting him to push for more, you’re surprised when he just goes back to kissing you. This time you let him slip his tongue inside your mouth; it’s so hot and wet, it makes you whine, rubbing your thighs together. He lets his hands drift from your lower back down to cup your ass and pull you flush against him. He pulls back for a second then greedily licks back into your mouth when you chase after his lips.

You pant against his mouth, trying to copy what he’s doing, letting your own tongue slide against his into his mouth. He coaxes you to taste him, stroking your tongues together before pushing yours back into your mouth, chasing after you to eagerly plunder your mouth. A low whine builds in your throat and his grip on your ass tightens, his hips rolling into yours.

He grabs your leg and hikes it over his hip, pressing up against you more intimately. You pull your lips away and moan at feeling his half hard cock pressed against your cunt, feeling the heat even through your thin shorts.

“Like that, babygirl?” He grins at you, swiping his thumb over your swollen lips, “we’ll get there, don’t worry.”

Your eyes flutter as he rolls his hips into you again, grinding against your damp center.

“Got you so wet already, sweetheart,” his eyes drop down to your splayed thighs, “already soaked through your cute little shorts.”

You feel embarrassment clawing in your chest, “S-sorry, daddy.”

“Don’t apologize, honey,” he coos, “just means daddy’s taking good care of you.”

He rolls you over onto your back while he raises up, “Let’s get you out of those clothes. You can’t be feeling too comfortable with it rubbing against that sweet little cunt.”

You gasp and press you palms to your face as more wetness fills your panties.

“Oh I know,” he chuckles, low timbre making your clit pulse, “take off your shirt too so daddy can see your tits, babygirl.”

You whine but do as you’re told, hands shaking as you pull your shirt off and fumble with your bra. While you’re doing that, Leon’s slowly tugging your shorts and panties down your legs. Your thighs are wet with slick, pussy throbbing and leaking.

“Mmm, good girl,” he praises, dark eyes taking in your trembling thighs and wet cunt, “got a juicy little pussy don’t ya, sweetheart?”

“Daddy,” you whimper, closing your thighs as you put your hands down to cover yourself.

“Uh uh,” his eyes narrow down at you, pulling your hands back with one hand while opening your legs with the other, “daddy’s looking at your hot little cunt, so behave and sit there, baby.”

You feel more slick dribble from your hole at his mean look and dirty words. He lets go of your hands and you tangle them in the sheets. Your hips jump when he strokes his broad palms across your legs and up your thighs, pinning them down.

“Daddy just wants a little taste, sweetheart,” he hums, dipping his head down and kissing your hip bones, “wanna see if you’re as sweet as you look.”

When he swipes his tongues through your wet folds and across your clit, stars spark behind your eyes as you cry out.

“Sorry, baby, didn’t get a good enough taste so I’ll have to do it again,” his dark eyes watch you hungrily.

Even though you know what to expect this time, it still sends white hot pleasure pulsing throughout your cunt as he laps at your slick hole and throbbing clit. You moan and thrash your head, fingers gripping the sheets tightly.

“Mmm, you taste so good baby, knew you would,” his slick shiny lips hover over your clit, breath teasing across the sensitive bud, “want daddy to keep kissing your pretty pussy?”

“Y-yes, daddy,” you choke out, hips arching against the hold he has on your thighs.

“Good, so good for me, honey. This virgin cunt hasn’t been touched has she?” He thumbs across your clit, “you ever play with your cute pussy, baby?”

“No, I don’t— it’s embarrassing,” you whisper, eyes watering.

He groans, pressing a sloppy kiss to the hood of your clit, “Don’t worry, daddy’s gonna show you how to feel so good.”

He kisses your pussy lips, running his tongue through your wet folds until he’s pressing his face fully into your cunt. His tongue thrusts in and out of your leaking hole as his nose rubs against your clit. Feeling so much at once has you moaning loudly, heels digging into the bedding not able to move from the firm grip Leon has on your thighs.

He groans, the sound vibrating in your cunt making you scratch at the sheets before shakily grabbing onto his hair. His eyes flicker open and stare at you, pupils blown so wide you can barely see the blue. He greedily laps up the slick dribbling from your clenching heat. He presses his nose firmer against your clit and moves his face back and forth, rubbing his chin against your spread pussy lips while his nose bumps and grinds against your sensitive clit.

“Daddy,” you mewl, petting through his blonde strands, “feels good.”

The whispered praise makes your heart race with anticipation and nerves. Leon pulls away from your pussy, face wet with your slick.

“Yeah?” his gravelly voice makes you shiver, “seems like this juicy pussy needed some attention.”

You whine, hips bucking, “Y-yeah, daddy, needed your attention.”

“Mm,” he hums, eyes dropping back to your throbbing clit, “she sure does. Gonna taste you some more, babygirl. Then we’ll see if daddy can fit some fingers in you.”

Gasping, your back arches.

“Then he’s gonna taste those pretty nipples that are so hard for me,” he rumbles, “think I’ll give’em some love while I finger this tight kitty.”

“Daddy!” you feel slick gush from your hole, wetting the sheets, arousal burning hot in your blood.

“Baby did you cum?” His dark eyes look back down at your thighs, a mean chuckle leaving his mouth, “god, you’re so easy sweet girl.”

With a groan, he goes back to shoving his face into your cunt, tongue eagerly lapping into your fluttering walls. It feels like your orgasm never wanes, only continues to climb higher and higher until you’re crying out and cumming a second time against Leon’s tongue.

When he finally pulls away from your oversensitive pussy, his lower jaw and chin are coated in your slick.

He runs a thumb across his lips, tongue licking the excess slick off, “Taste so good, babygirl. But as much as I wanna stay down here, I really need to feel you cream your virgin pussy on my cock.”

Dread and elation make you feel dizzy with nerves, hands shakily running through your hair, “I-I’m nervous, daddy.”

He smiles at you, all sharp teeth and hard edges, not even trying to instill any comfort in you, “It’s okay, baby, daddy’s gonna make you feel so good. You’re gonna want my dick all the time.”

He moves up to lay between your spread thighs, mouth eagerly latching onto a hard nipple. He slips a finger inside your tight cunt and slowly thrusts it in and out. You cry out and scratch at his back. He swaps to suckle at the other nipple as he continues to loosen up your clenching hole.

“Open up for me, baby,” he murmurs against your breasts, lazily sucking marks into your skin, “just relax and feel good.”

You squirm, but settle against the bed with a low moan; Leon takes a moment but then slips another finger into your pussy, using both to gently stretch your hole. He pulls his fingers out to spread your pussy open, mouth suckling at your puffy nipples.

“D-daddy,” you gasp, eyes wide as you look down at him.

Leon slowly circles your swollen clit, teasingly dragging his first and middle finger down to your leaking hole. He slips them in just a little and then drags the wetness back up to slide over your pulsing clit. You whine and buck into the feeling, guilt and arousal swirling through your thoughts.

“Your mom called earlier,” Leon’s voice pulls your attention down to his serious gaze, “said she’ll be gone all week, baby. That I need to take care of you.”

He presses a kiss on your areola, lips dragging against your hard nipple. Your pussy leaks more slick out onto his fingers, dizzy with the thought of being trapped in this house with Leon for a whole week.

“Told her it would be my pleasure,” he smirks at you, feeling your walls clench down on him, “daddy’s going to take very good care of you, sweetheart.”

Too many thoughts and images of Leon and you at home, all alone, flitter through your hazy mind. You’re sick excited at the prospect—all the things he’s going to do to you, things you want him to do to you— it leaves you dizzy and breathless.

“Daddy,” you sigh, eyes drooping, “so good to me.”

His eyes narrow at you before a slow smile spreads across his handsome face, almost gleeful at your new tone, “Of course, baby. You’re my sweet, sweet girl.”

The tension in your body melts as his fingers continue to thrust and rub against a spongy spot in your cunt that makes you whine and roll your hips down into his hand. Leon notices and his fingers speed up from their slow, steady movements to rough strokes until he slips his fingers out to rub against your wet, swollen clit. He pinches lightly before tapping his fingers wetly against the bundle of nerves then goes back to rubbing your clit softly.

You mewl when he stops fingering you only for Leon to dip his fingers back into your pussy and scissor you open. Moaning, you lift your hips off the bed to angle your pussy to fit his fingers better. Having Leon take you apart across his marriage bed is making you feel dirty and desperate.

“Good girl,” he whispers to you, eyes watching your blissed out face, “almost there, sweetheart.”

Leon goes back to mouthing and sucking at your breasts, his other hand moving down to rub and flick your clit as he stretches you open. He fucks his fingers into your soppy cunt a few times then takes his hand away.

“Noo,” you whimper, eyes watering in frustration, “daddy, please.”

“Shhh, babygirl,” he soothes, lifting himself up until he’s kneeling over your naked body, “daddy’s about to make you feel so good.”

You watch as he slides his underwear off and tosses them to her floor. He then grabs his dick in one hand and presses the head to your leaking hole. Tears slip from your eyes as he pushes more of his fat cock into your virgin pussy. He groans, stilling to give you time to adjust and stretch around his dick.

He brings a hand to wipe the tears away from your cheeks, “Doing so good for daddy. So wet and tight. Gonna love popping this cherry, baby.”

You whine up at him, head feeling cottony from the arousal swallowing your thoughts. He presses more and more of his cock inside your tight cunt, making you hiss from the pinching displeasure when he breaks your hymen.

Your nails break skin, digging your fingers into the muscles of his biceps.

“God, that’s it,” he murmurs down at you, stormy blue eyes practically black with want, “this virgin pussy’s all mine now, sweet girl. Gonna stay that way too.”

You only gasp and pant, eyes rolling back in your head as he keeps bullying his cock deeper and deeper into your cunt.

“That’s right, baby,” he coos mockingly at you, “just need me to take care of you, show you what you need.”

He grinds his cock deep into your spasming walls, the fat leaky tip kissing the opening to your womb. You whine, static filling your brain at the pain the head of his dick causes as he keeps pressing against your cervix.

“Daddy, h-hurts,” you wheeze, voice thin and reedy, “too much.”

“Hush,” he growls, a low rumble in his chest, “you just have to get used to it. Daddy’s gotta be this deep to feel good.”

Your legs kick out and he settles his weight down on you more, pressing your body firmly into the mattress. His pelvis pushes onto your swollen clit making you buck upwards with a low cry.

“There you go,” he praises, slotting his fingers with yours so he can press your hands above your head and hold them down, “just gotta train this cute pussy to take daddy’s cock.”

He chuckles as he noses along your hairline and drops a kiss to your forehead, “And look at that, you take daddy so well.”

You blearily look down your body and see the bulge in your lower belly; you watch as Leon pulls out halfway and the bulge disappears before reappearing when he pushes back into your cunt.

Your head drops back down to the bed as you moan loudly, tears streaming from your eyes as the pain and pleasure blend into a kaleidoscope of feelings.

“Daddy,” you hiccup, “daddy, d-daddy.”

“I know,” he purrs in your ear, smoky and dark, “daddy’s going to cum in you, baby. Give you a little brother or sister. Wouldn’t you like that, sweetheart?”

At those words, your pussy spasms around his throbbing cock; you hiccup a sob as tears slip down your face, “C-can’t, that’s w-wrong, daddy.”

He licks the salty trail of tears on your cheeks as buries his cock into your pussy again making you squeal at the sharp pleasure.

“Aww my stupid sweet girl,” he huffs a mean laugh into your ear, pressing his dick as deep as he can inside you, grinding it harshly against your cervix, “just so fucking dumb. Daddy does whatever he wants.”

With a throaty growl he presses all the way into you, bottoming out in your wet, silky heat, “And you’re not even on birth control, sweetheart. So if I want to give you a baby, it’ll be easy for it to take.”

His thick cock splits you open, pussy greedily sucking him into your body as you cry harder because of Leon’s treatment. That dark part of you loves how he’s treating you—using you, breeding your pussy how he wants.

You draw a deep shuddering breath, hands clawing at his biceps, “Noo, daddy, can’t—“

He’s thrusting into you still, making you feel split open. Your cunt feels raw and overstretched, his cock bullying deep into you on every thrust to the point it feels like your cervix will be bruised later.

“Knocking you up would be perfect, baby,” he growls burying himself balls deep and stilling, “keep you tied to daddy for the rest of your life.”

You keen high in your throat, a broken moan slipping from your lips as your walls flutter and grip Leon’s cock. Clit throbbing with wanton disgust at how hot that makes you feel.

He goes back to slow deep thrusts, dragging his cock all the way out until his fat tip is spreading your hole open then rocking deep into your cunt; you can barely breathe with how deep he’s fucking you, tears still slipping from your eyes.

Leon moves each of your legs up over his shoulders, ramping up his pace to drill his cock harshly into your squelching pussy.

“So fucking juicy, babygirl,” he pants, hips humping down into you roughly, “just listen to that fucking pussy cry for me.”

His pelvis presses onto your clit just right with every thrust while he rails you into the bed. You feel your orgasm ramp up with every thrust and slow drag across your swollen clit.

Your thighs spasm where they’re pressed against Leon’s shoulders and your toes curl as your orgasm starts to hit you; a tidal wave drowning all your senses, your pussy clamping down on his cock like a vice. Your blood rushes to your head, dampening any noise, as you thrash underneath Leon’s body; a low, keening cry from your panting mouth has Leon growling in satisfaction.

“Good girl, so sweet for me baby,” he groans, grinding himself into your clenching hole, “so god damn tight.”

You choke out a moan, hands squeezing onto his until your joints creak, feeling overwrought as you keep cumming around his cock.

“Fuck,” he hisses into your ear, hips stuttering, “going to make me cum early, sweetheart. Squeezing me too fucking tight.”

He presses your hands down into the bedding as his hips rabbit into your puffy cunt; half a dozen thrusts like that and he groans, cumming deep in your raw pussy.

“So good,” he presses a wet kiss on your cheek, “love filling you up, babygirl.”

He drags his mouth from your cheek to kiss you, tongue licking into your panting mouth. You kiss back messily, feeling his cock kick and throb as he steadily spurts rope after rope of hot jizz in your pulsating cunt.

Leon’s dick finally starts to soften and he slowly lets himself slip out of your wet heat. He sits back on his haunches and watches hungrily as his cum leaks from your hole, pussy looking swollen and puffy.

Your brain is empty, sick satisfaction radiating from your used body. Whimpering, you lay there as Leon swipes his fingers through the mix of cum and slick dripping from your cunt and feeds it slowly back into your drippy hole.

His empty smile makes you feel small as he pets your hair back, “Daddy’s going to take such good care of you, baby. I promise.”

#leon s kennedy x fem!reader #fem!reader #leon kennedy x reader smut #resident evil smut #leon s kennedy smut #leon s kennedy x you #leon s kennedy #stepdad!leon kennedy #stepdad!leon s kennedy #stepdad!leon x fem!reader #stepdad!leon s kennedy x fem!reader #dark!leon s kennedy #stepdad leon s kennedy #stepdad!leon s kennedy x virgin fem!reader #virgin reader #virgin fem!reader

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knavesflames · 5 months

Text

“Promise”

Just a little thing about Clervie and Arlecchino that lowkey apart my heart thinking about it. Again, very sorry if this is not good!! Am new to writing things down other than in my notes sooo bear with me as I get better pls 😩

Contents: angst, the tiniest mention of self harm. It isn’t graphic, it is mentioned in passing only once, and very vaguely, but thought I’d put a TW anyway🥰

Word count: 2453

Writing under the cut!!:D

At age 9,

Peruere sits in the garden, holding the small box. The lid is open as she places a small lumidouce bell next to the spider. The lumidouce bell will die and wilt underground, but at least the spider won’t be lonely, she thinks.

“Peruere!”

The loud childish voices rings out in the garden once again. A sigh leaves Peruere’s lips. She isn’t in the mood to talk to the person she secretly calls sunshine. Looking down at the splayed out body of her pet spider, her lip quivers. Once, twice, before a tear falls onto the wood of the makeshift coffin. The dread rising in her as she sees her hands changing doesn’t go unnoticed, but she pushes it down. ‘What is that? Why am I changing?’

Her thoughts are interrupted by the sunshine once again, the voice now muffled with chewing.

“I brought cake. Want some?”

Peruere’s now charcoal hands take the cake, pausing as the sunshine (or Clervie, but Peruere prefers sunshine) takes it from her hands and places it on a leaf in front of the small grave.

“You must know spiders don’t eat cake.”

“Yeah, I know! They can’t eat cake here, but in spider world they can.”

Her voice is almost irritating to Peruere, who is only trying to be angsty and sad. But how can she be sad when the sunshine is right there?

“Clervie, I want to sit in silence.”

Clervie can’t help her eyebrows furrowing before she sits down with a small thud.

“I’ll sit with you, then.”

Peruere sighs as her eyes, eyes that are unlike any others in the house of the hearth, glance towards the sunshine. She doesn’t persist. Secretly, she’s glad for the company. Clervie smiles back as she plays with the small patch of lumidouce bells.

“I don’t care that you’re different. I think you’re cool.”

Her eyes narrow, eyebrows furrowing before she responds.

“Why? I’m completely different from you.”

“I like that. Even our teddies are different. I think everyone being the same is boring. They won’t be the king because they are all the same. You will be king one day, Peruere. Can I sit with you when you are?”

Peruere feels just a small amount of dread at those words. The words that remind her that one day, she indeed, will have to do what Mother says and fight to be king. Something is off about Mother, she thinks. She is too kind, too caring. She doesn’t like it. Not just because she doesn’t deserve it (that’s what she tells herself in the mirror before she sleeps), but because Clervie, the sunshine, is falling for it. In that moment, she makes a silent vow to protect the sunshine always, even if it is cloudy.

“We can be king together.”

“Do you promise? I don’t want to be left behind.”

“I promise.”

At age 11,

Peruere and Clervie, the sunshine and the moon, sit in a deserted part of the house of the hearth. Their favourite part is the room with the wide window, where they sit and stare at the sky, talking about their dreams. Or rather, Clervie talks, Peruere listens. Though this time, the roles seem to be reversed. Next to them, a tray of medical instruments. Scissors, bandages, gauze, disinfectant. Peruere sits, her blackened, gentle but clumsy hands tying a bow on one of the bandages. The look on Clervie, I mean, the sunshine’s, face was much brighter than ten minutes ago. This is the first of many times, unbeknownst to them. Peruere speaks softly.

“What happened? Your wrists looked like they got hurt.”

“Nothing, Peruere.”

Alarm bells ring in Peruere’s head. Clervie was never this closed off, not with her.

“Did you do this to yourself? Like Céline? She got upset at herself so she hurt herself. I don’t like that, tell me you didn’t do that. It’s dangerous, Clervie.”

Her eyes, shining black, filled with worry. Her hand grabs the sunshine’s, giving it a little squeeze, encouraging her to talk.

“No, that isn’t it. I argued. With Mother. I don’t want to fight everyone to be king. I want to be friends with everyone, I want to eat bulle fruit with everyone. Why do we have to fight?”

“I do not like it either. I want to run away sometimes. Do Mothers always argue with their daughters?”

“I don’t know.”

Clervie’s hands, still trembling from the adrenaline, push open the window. They stare at the stars for a while, before her voice rings out once more, soft, quiet, always optimistic.

“I heard that in Snezhnaya, coloured lights dance in the sky at night. When we grow up, shall we go see it together?”

Peruere wonders if they’ll ever go and see it, or if it’s just another empty promise. Just like how Mother promised her spider wouldn’t die, how the fish she caught wouldn’t be eaten.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

At age 13,

The sun shines. Both the actual sun, and Clervie, Peruere thinks. Her fingers are splayed out on the picnic blanket, the wet paint on her nails shining in the light when her fingers twitch. Painted black, like her skin on her arms, and red, the colour of the lipstick they stole from Mother a few weeks ago, the colour of Clervie’s hair. She makes a noise of satisfaction, secretly looking at Clervie through her fingers. It looks like she’s looking through prison bars, she thinks. But Clervie is the sun. If anyone should be in prison, it’s her, not Clervie. She doesn’t like the way she thinks about Mother, but Mother harms the sunshine. Her sunshine. Her eyes widen, just slightly as she realises that maybe feeling so warm and fuzzy inside whenever she sees Clervie isn’t exactly a usual way to think of people. She doesn’t feel that for anyone else. She stares a bit longer. How the red of Clervie’s hair reminds her of the burning sun. Of the fire in the lounge of the house of the hearth. Fire is good, she thinks. She could protect her sunshine with fire. In a split decision, she takes the red nail polish in one hand, a strand of her white hair in the other. Snow and blood. Blood on snow. Those colours seem to be awfully present in her life as of late, and her heart begins to twist as she thinks of what it means for her future. Before she can think any harder, Clervie’s giggle cuts through her thoughts.

“What are you doing, silly?”

Red paints on the snow coloured hair.

“I’m like you now. I have red hair. That way, we will stay friends forever.”

“I like you too much to leave you, silly. It looks good with your hair. The red. You should paint it every day, and that way, you can—“

Words are cut off by clumsy lips meeting clumsy lips. Only for a second, a second that feels forever. Peruere’s cheeks flush the colour of the painted strand as she mumbles apologetic words.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, I-“

“It’s okay. I liked it. I want to do it more. You should still keep the red strand. Promise you will?”

“Yes, I promise.”

At age 16,

Mother has been increasingly cruel, to both her and Clervie. Especially to Clervie. How could someone be so evil to someone so kind is something Peruere cannot fathom. She despises seeing Clervie cry, to hear her quiet sobs at night. Her eyes are always bright, always happy. If not for her own sake, for Peruere’s. But the sun has been hiding lately, hiding behind clouds and avoiding words. The red strand of Peruere’s hair, once painted every day with nail polish to match Clervie’s, now permanently dyed, retouched every eight weeks, hidden under most of her hair to avoid Mother’s wrath. And now? They stand in the field, Clervie, facing Peruere with resigned eyes.

“You know it’s the only way. Mother will kill us both if you are not king. Have you not noticed the children disappearing?”

“I have. It does not mean your life has to end. You cannot take your life—“

“No. That will not satisfy Mother, and you know that. You must do it.”

Hate, fear, dread and sadness twist Peruere’s gut so hard she feels as if she will throw up. She fight the urge to retch at the very suggestion that she dulls the sunshine she has grown to adore so.

“I cannot. I will not. You cannot ask me to do something like that.”

“You must.”

She hates that Clervie is right. She hates that Mother is so twisted and sick that this is the only choice. She begs anyway, something she told herself she would never do.

“Please. We were supposed to go to Snezhnaya together. To see the coloured lights in the sky. There is no ‘we’ without you.”

A chuckle is heard, the familiar chuckle that lights up Peruere’s heart, the chuckle that feels like it’ll reverse her curse entirely. She can’t deny the sadness she hears in it though, especially not when she sees a tear slip down Clervie’s face. The sight brings tears to her own eyes and she looks away, unable to stare at her any longer. The longer she stares, the harder it will be. She knows this, but her eyes move back to her anyway.

“You will look at the coloured lights, and you can trust I will be there in them.”

“No! This is not fair.”

“You know I’m right, Peruere.”

“And I hate that you are. You’re always damn right. Stop that.”

Another chuckle is heard behind tears.

“I plan to.”

“Don’t joke.”

“I’m sorry. And I’m sorry you have to do this.”

Peruere feels like her breath is being sucked out of her, like she can’t inhale enough and yet, exhaling is impossible. Her brain is telling her she has to. She has to give the sunshine a merciful end, lest Mother give her a far worse fate. But her heart is screaming. Tears drip down her face, her body wracked with silent cries. Her hand goes to the hilt of the dagger she always carries.

“But I love you. You are my sunshine.”

“I love you, too. And so I will always be here when the sun is shining. I am not afraid.”

“I am.”

Peruere is not one to be scared. She never has. But now, her hands are clammy, she feels a sweat gathering. She feels her heart thumping in a completely different way than when they share small kisses and giggles. She feels like she’s killing herself instead of her love. The dagger is unsheathed now, the blade glinting with every tremble of her hand. Oh, God, there it is again. That smile, the one that melts Peruere every time. Images flash in her mind of every time she bandages Clervie after an argument with Mother. Images of what could happen should Mother take Clervie’s life into her own hands, and before she can think twice, the dagger has pierced her skin. Clervie’s clothes are staining with blood as red as her hair.

“No. No, no— please. Clervie, you can’t. Why did you tell me to do this?”

Red ‘X’ irises stare into blue ones. A beautiful bluey green, one that Peruere has always admired. Has always adored looking into. Not now. Not while she watches the life drain from her eyes. Watching the sun burn.

“You will make a great king.”

“Stop that.”

Anger boils inside Peruere, anger like she has never felt before. She swears she will kill anyone who threatens to hurt the ones she cares about. She won’t let this happen again.

“I’m sorry. Thank you.”

Clervie’s soft words fill her ears for the final time before her body drops to the floor with a thunk. Peruere stares down at her, anger filling her so greatly, she becomes blank. She decides she will never feel again. She will never love again. The sun was a star, but the sun has burned and died.

“Do you promise you will be with me in Snezhnaya? Promise?”

“..Clervie?”

She is met with only silence, and the sound of the lumidouce bells waving in the wind.

At age 28,

Arlecchino walks through the halls of the House of the Hearth, watching stoically as the children play, as they watch the two children perform their magic show. She calls out, her voice strict, unfeeling.

“Meet in the dining hall when you are finished. Dinner is served shortly.”

Met with a chorus of “Yes Father”, she nods, satisfied, before turning away. Her heels click against the tiled floor as she walks through the halls, her hair flowing in her ponytail behind her. She takes the long route, avoiding the west wing of bedrooms, something she has avoided for many years. Her footfalls come to a stop as the sun hits her as it shines through the window. She feels a tug at her heart, and she clenches her fists tightly before sighing, turning quickly on her heel. She walks with purpose, walking past the many bedrooms until she slows, coming to a stop in front of the bedroom door she has kept locked. The ring of keys in her pocket makes a sound as she pulls them out, and she listens to the way they jingle as she unlocks the door and slips inside. She blinks back heartache as she stares around at the room. It has been well preserved, it looks like it’s still very much lived in by a sixteen year old girl. She goes about, dusting the surfaces in silence, cleaning up any signs that it hasn’t been touched in such a long time. She opens the window, watering the lumidouce bells that sit on the windowsill outside. She stops by the bed, where two teddies sit— one pink with a white ribbon, one black and white with red ‘X’s for eyes. Her hand, now black with darker patterns all over from how far the curse has advanced, softly pets the pink one, swallowing down a shaky breath. Her nails, painted red and black, like they always have been, gives a gentle scratch under the chin.

“Good morning, Clervie. The children are doing well today.”

Her hand slides into her pocket, pulling out a small, gift wrapped box, placing it by the teddy.

“Happy birthday. I told you I would not forget. The sun is shining brightly, and the colours in the sky at night have been vivid lately. You would have found them beautiful, I am sure. I would have loved to look at you as you stared at them in wonder.”

The birthday gift joins another 11 on the bed, each one in different phases of aging. She stands again, smoothing down the bedsheets before placing a small kiss on the pink teddy.

“See you next year, Clervie. I promise.”

#arlecchino hc #arlecchino genshin #arlebina #arlechinno genshin #arlechinno x reader #arlefuri #genshin impact #arle #genshin smut #genshin wlw #genshin x reader #genshin fanfic #clervie #peruere #arlecchino smut #genshin impact arlecchino #arlecchino #genshin imagines

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blueywrites · 2 years

Text

I Will Wait

a soulmate!fakemarriage!au with rockstar!eddie and personalassistant!reader (also featuring ronance)

cowritten by @abibliophobiaa, @blue-mossbird, @breddiemunson, @myosotisa, and @fracturedarkness

18+ only for mature themes and eventual sexual content. fem!reader

one (9.9k) | next | masterlist | AO3 | 🎵 shmackin' tunes

in this universe, there is no upside down, the year is 1995, and corroded coffin = nine inch nails. if you didn't check out the prequel publications (hot off the press on our series masterlist), make sure you do, since they provide important backstory for the IWW universe! read them carefully; there are secrets. 😉

Your mind is a buzzing whirl, just like that of the streets of New York City below, visible through the thick glass of your apartment window. Below, where you can hear the blare of honking horns, can see people loitering on the side of the road, hands waving high in an attempt to hail one of the taxis rushing past. You watch as people dart across busy intersections, dodging oncoming cars, scattering like ants across criss-crossed streets that teem with activity even in the dead of night.

It’s a constant, a comfort, something you can cling to as anticipation bubbles and wells in your gut.

Outside, the sun is beginning its slow descent; glowing bright skies begin to deepen into a powdery orange, hinting at a day starting to close. Your fingers press against the window, a mental note already forming to clean it once you step away, eyes peering out into the bustling city streets. You work your way down the mental list once more: dishes washed, already set aside in the drying rack; laundry ironed and folded, pressed neatly into your drawers in categorical order; counters wiped down, shades dusted, furniture polished; dishwasher emptied, cups, plates, bowls and utensils placed in proper cabinets; AOL inbox checked, your confirmation for the time you would be meeting your new boss responded to, while the rest of the emails were placed into proper folders or deleted completely.

You’ve already changed your outfit three times. Laid multiple options out on your bed and ironed them all. You had held them to your body in the reflection of your bedroom mirror and tossed them into a heap at the foot of your bed. This wasn’t just any day, after all. The importance isn’t lost on you. This isn’t like any of your temp jobs that came before it. This is the first you’ll be working alongside someone with undeniable notoriety in the music space.

A celebrity, really.

“I can see your mind working, you know?” Angela, your roommate, glances up from where she sits at your kitchen island. There’s a magazine in front of her with some likely-falsified article about the newest Hollywood “IT” couple on display, dressed to the nines with glowing, airbrushed features. Her nails tap along the countertop, stark red against pale cream, as she arches a brow in your direction.

You’re already walking into the kitchen to join her, skirt sliding against your tight-clad thighs as you reach down beneath the sink to grab a bottle of windex, sights set on the fingerprints on your floor-to-ceiling windows. She twists in the chair while you rustle about, ignoring her as you grasp paper towels from the rack.

“This is a good thing,” she says, sighing with an exasperated shake of the head. Your reflection obscures for a brief moment, replaced by blue spray, before you wipe your lingering prints away. “You’ve wanted to travel for so long. You know, see the world and all of that. This is your opportunity to do it. And shit, it beats working for that asshat you used to deal with. What was his name again?”

You slip back into the kitchen to throw the towel away, heels clacking against tile. “Carver,” you reply, just as the lid to the garbage falls closed. You lean back against the countertop, smoothing your sweaty palms along the sides of your skirt. “Pretty sure anyone would be better than him. I still can’t believe that Mr. Harrington came to the office looking to mitigate all that tension between Mr. Munson and Jason by trying to partner up Carver Distilleries and Corroded Coffin for a commercial, and Jason went and ruined it by running his mouth. I wish you could have seen it, Ange. Mr. Harrington was so disgusted with how he behaved, he extinguished the deal completely right there in his office.”

“Exactly, because even he knows that man is vile,” she sighs with a pout, her form slipping down from off of one of your shoddy barstools, curly blonde hair swaying around her shoulders as she walks. You snort when her hands curl around your forearms, shaking you lightly. “What did your new boss say? Something about you being more than equipped to handle this position? Didn’t he, oh I don’t know, request you specifically for his client? You’re going to be fine; in fact, you’re going to be wonderful. If there’s anyone in this world who can handle the notorious Eddie Munson, I think it’s you.”

With a newly restored confidence, you set to the bustling streets of Manhattan, sights poised on the recording studio address you were given. You thought your first day might start with something akin to an office introduction. Something, at the very least, a little less imposing than this. But you double checked your email from Mr. Harrington before you left and printed the directions that now sat clutched tight within your hands.

The building that stands before you at the end of your trek looms arresting and proud in the midst of the bodies swarming around you. Your eyes lift hesitantly to the glass door, your mirrored reflection leaping back at you. Angela’s words ring true in your ears; you are more than adequately equipped. You wouldn’t be invited here if it were not fate itself beckoning at your door. With a resigned exhale, your fingers twine around the cool, metal handle and step inside.

Schmackin’ Records is a world unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. From the moment your feet hit the mat at the front door, company logo etched into it, you know you’re no longer sitting at the front desk of Carver Distilleries. Your head tilts upward to the records dangling from the ceiling, then lower to the endless sprawling walls littered with posters boasting of accolades achieved by the success of the artists that have roamed these halls. You’re struck with the realization that you’re standing in the shadows of legends that have also trailed this path before you.

This— this place and this moment, are your current reality.

“You wouldn’t happen to be the new assistant, would you?” The woman at the front desk catches your attention. Your head whirls, fingers slipping from where they rest along a glass case affixed to the wall, proclaiming a recently obtained platinum record. Her face softens at your visible nervousness. “Sorry to scare you, dear.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine! I’m… ah, I’m actually here to meet with Mr. Steve Harrington. He gave me this address….” You hold aloft the directions in your hand, heart dancing in your chest as your heeled shoes propel you over to where she sits behind a glass panel. The woman before you glimpses down at your directions printed from MapQuest with a pitying grin, her head bobbing before her fingers clack away on her keyboard.

“That’s right! Hold on one moment, sweetie.” You open your mouth to speak as she lifts a phone from its receiver and dials a number quickly. You can faintly hear a voice on the other end. “Mr. Harrington? Yes, this is Joyce speaking. Mr. Munson’s new assistant is here looking for you… okay— yes, that’s fine. Thank you, yes— I’ll let her know. Goodbye.”

Your legs plant beneath you firmly, shoulders ramrod straight, head tilted up in anticipation of your new role. Joyce only resumes in her typing, head tilted down toward her computer screen, leaving you to simmer alone in the tense silence.

“Mr. Harrington will meet you on floor five. Just take that elevator down this hall on your left,” she says, head lifting abruptly from her work.

“Thank you!”

Somehow, the directions only bring you more nervousness. The knowledge that all that stands before you and your new role is five floors. A short elevator ride. Merely a few moments in time remain stretched between you and the catapult into a lifestyle you’ve only seen on television prior to this opportunity.

Your shoes clack against the laminate flooring, a foreboding tap tap tap as you shuffle your way down the short hallway and press the call button for your elevator. The doors open with a soft ping, heart ricocheting against your ribcage as you step inside and the silver metal closes behind you. Hesitant fingers raise to press the number five, the circle bursting to life and illuminating your selection. You step into the center of the room, hands clasped at your side, eyes ahead of you on your distorted reflection upon the surface.

You settled on a simple outfit for the day. Something pristine and professional. A thin black long-sleeved shirt, pale gray tweed skirt, black tights, and dark heels. Simple and understated, though still maintaining your own preferences for stylistic choices. Those same clothes cling to you now. Your tights suddenly seem too tight, heels increasingly pinchy around the back of your heel, skirt prickly and coarse against your thighs, the neck of your sweater digging into your throat. You’re parched, though you doubt any amount of water would assist you now.

The door opens to reveal sprawling wooden walls, as well as the figure of Steve Harrington standing before you in a pair of slacks and a simple button up. He looks exceedingly kind just as he did the first time you met him. Dark, depthless eyes with a wide grin spread across finely hewn features. His fingers card through his hair as you step out to greet him, hand coming to extend before you at the ready.

“You’re here! Oh, thank god.” He shakes your hand briefly and nudges you toward the opening of a hallway, those endless panels of wooden walls surrounding you on either side. The voice that spills from him in a rush is a frantic murmur of, “I’m sorry to have contacted you on such notice. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble—”

“Oh, not at all, Mr. Harrington,” you interrupt, swallowing thickly as he pauses in stride. “Sorry.”

“No, no. Please, call me Steve. Mr. Harrington is what people call my father,” he says, smiling softly. There’s a comfort in his gaze, a warmth that oozes from him. The tightness in your chest loosens, a deep breath pouring out. “We’ve… well, his last assistant quit abruptly, you see, and therefore we were obviously left with no notice. So when you said you could start as soon as possible, it was almost a godsend.”

Your hands grip tighter to the band of your pocketbook draped over your shoulder, leather still cool from the afternoon air. “I’m here for whatever you need, Mr. Ha— Steve.”

The hallway leads to a door, dark and imposing, with a wide silver handle. His fingers curl around it and hesitate, head turning over his shoulder to gauge your expression. The worrying of your lip pauses, teeth releasing from their tense position against your skin. Your mouth quirks upward into a hopeful smile, willing those nerves bubbling to subside.

“What exactly have you heard about Eddie Munson?” he asks you.

You know he’s not expecting a true answer. Not really. You’ve done minimal research. A quick Yahoo search brings up more articles than you know what to do with in reference to the infamous Eddie Munson. Most of which had brought you to pages detailing his altercation at the Grammy Awards in 1994 and the numerous escapades he’s gotten himself into in the course of his still newly established stardom, as well as his whirlwind romance with his wife.

“Not much,” you admit, and while it is the truth, Steve seems to deflate a bit.

His shoulders drop, hand coming to run through that full head of dark hair on him once more. That easy demeanor shifts, mouth turning southward. “Eddie is… he means well. He’s just— well, he’s gone through a few assistants in the past few months, as you know. In the few years I’ve known him, I can tell you with certainty he is dedicated to his craft, but he tends to veer into the wilder aspects of life. What he needs right now is someone who can handle him, and I truly believe that person is you.”

You feel your stomach drop. Initially, when Steve had offered you the position, he boasted of a fast-paced role that required adaptability. Your previous job had been nothing but back to back phone calls, fielding all the incoming clients and their questions, managing the schedules of your manager, and ensuring all issues were handled accordingly.

Babysitting a rockstar hadn’t exactly been on your agenda; yet even despite all of that, you couldn’t pass up the opportunity and had accepted the job offer.

“And the others?” you question, hand coming to rub along your bicep.

“I wouldn’t worry about it so much,” Steve says with a shake of his head. “You handled Carver. Eddie should be a breeze.”

Carver Distilleries was not your ideal job, but it was the job you acquired shortly after a brief stint as an administrative assistant for a local community college. The company touted a prolific background of over thirty years in business and you jumped at the prospect. It had been straightforward enough most days. The phones rang around the clock and you handled the calls as expected, passed them off to their proper channels, and made sure the son of the CEO was happy at all times.

Jason Carver was, to put it lightly, the devil’s incarnate. Most days you wondered if he’d been placed in this life for the sole purpose of bringing suffering to all those around him, with a pitchfork in one hand and tail swishing behind him as he stomped through the halls of the building.

You couldn’t recall off the top of your head a day wherein he had ever been happy. Shockingly so for someone born from wealth and thrusted into the limelight, silver spoon in mouth at birth. Jason was proof that money hardly ever solved all problems.

He reigned as the crowned Prince of the company, his father’s shining star, who never raised his finger to do anything. For years, he rode on the back of his father’s coattails and treated those around them like they were beneath him, nose always upturned, sneer firmly planted on his face.

That evening you were already overwhelmed. There was an issue down in the marketing department regarding a mixup in schedules, leaving the Carver’s seated next to a family they didn’t particularly have positive dealings with at an upcoming gala. To add to the rising tension, Jason sent you on an errand to retrieve his requested cappuccino. Light foam, two sugars, extra hot. When you’d returned, he was still in a meeting with some of his fathers business executives, hidden behind a glass door. You left the cup for him there, as requested of you, and rushed back to the front desk just as Mr. Steve Harrington walked into the building.

He’d come in looking like any other businessman you’d seen grace the building in the past. Perfectly tailored suit and tie, briefcase in hand, hair coiffed neatly atop his head. Steve Harrington, though young, harnessed a professionalism about him that Jason Carver lacked. There were no sneers aimed your way as he approached the desk and greeted you pleasantly, nor did he scoff at the hand you’d extended in greeting, welcoming him with a soft thanks.

“Mr. Carver is just finishing up another meeting and will be out to retrieve you,” you advise him, walking out from behind your desk. “Would you like coffee, water… tea?”

“I’m okay, thank you,” he says, holding his briefcase tighter within his palm as he made his way over to the small couch positioned across from you, nestled beside a potted plant. You retreated back to your desk as he pulled a phone from his pocket, voice rising just enough to ask, “Do you happen to have—”

“What is this?!” Jason’s voice boomed from down the hall.

A loud thump echoed from his office, likely from something he’d tossed off his desk in frustration, and you knew well enough to duck behind the covering of your work space. You frantically thumbed the spacebar on your computer to bring it back to life, assuring everyone in your vicinity that you appeared occupied as a shock of blonde hair filled your peripheral. He’d bursted into the room with the dejected coffee in hand, hair strewn about messily atop, eyes narrowed in heedless anger.

Your eyes flickered to the cup, then settled back on the opened email on your desktop computer. The subject line held a request for a flower arrangement you were set to purchase for Jason’s wife, Chrissy, because he couldn’t be bothered to do it himself.

You let out a soft sigh and explained, “It’s the coffee you asked for.”

His nostrils flared like a bull, the embers burning behind his eyes glowing brighter. “I know it’s the coffee I asked for. I don't pay you to answer me with that sarcastic bullshit—”

“Mr. Carver—” The rise of your voice caught you both off guard, only further angering him.

His eyes narrowed, brows knitted tight across the middle of his forehead, vein pulsing against taut skin growing redder by the second. “I asked for a cappuccino with light foam, two sugars, and asked that you make sure it’s extra hot. This isn’t extra hot. This isn’t even warm. It’s cold.”

“Yes, Mr. Carver. It was hot when I left it on your desk two hours ago. Would you like me to go and get you another one?” You try your best to retain a neutral tone. You’re aware of Steve’s eyes trailing along both your forms, interrupted from his own work by your increasingly heated argument.

He barked out an incredulous laugh, head shaking. “No, I don't want you to get me another coffee. You should have known my meeting would run long and planned accordingly. I don’t know where you get the nerve to talk to me like you are when you seem to have forgotten you are no more than a rece—”

“Mr. Carver.” You both paused at the finality of your tone, throat filled with the bitter taste of the degradation he attempted to throw your way. “Your two thirty meeting for the Tennessee Maple Whiskey commercial is here.”

He clicked his tongue, shooting a glower your way. You already anticipated a meeting in his office later wherein he reminded you of all the reasons why your behavior was unacceptable and why you were lucky to still have a position at Carver Distilleries.

“Fine. Mr. Harrington, give me one moment and I will call you back into my office. I just need to finish running something by my father. As for you—” His eyes darted back to your form. “—I will deal with you later.”

You exhaled a heavy sigh of relief as the blonde haired man sauntered back down the hall, leaving you to the comfort of your generally quiet front desk. Steve still lingered there, one hand curled around his phone, the other lifting the briefcase he held off his lap to set it in the seat beside him. You watched as he rose to his feet and dropped his phone within his pocket, gliding over to your desk with a small white card in hand.

You didn’t need to read the words there to know what he’d slid across your desk. It was an instantaneous understanding, the knowledge of a new opportunity, of a way out from beneath the weight of the man who wanted nothing more than to rule with an iron fist and remind others that they were all beneath him.

He glanced briefly down the hall to ensure no one was listening and leveled his gaze with yours, voice a quieted whisper as he said, “You work well under pressure. Carver is… well, Carver’s an ass. I can offer you more money, if you happen to be looking for another job. You could travel the world working for me instead of sitting behind this desk. Let me know.”

Standing before Steve, you feel the questions swirling of the validity of the hope he’d placed inside of you. Had it been premature? He’d only seen one encounter between your prior manager and yourself. That was hardly enough to base a whole career off of, and yet his fingers tighten around the door handle all the same, ready to pull it forward and open you up to a world of newness beckoning you.

Your sweaty palms slide down the sides of your tweed skirt, fabric rustling about your thighs as you step nearer to the door, hardening your resolve.

It’s now or never, you suppose.

“Remember,” Steve warns, just as you move to step inside the recording studio. “He means well. I should also warn that he can tend to be a little… flirtatious. But I would try and pay it no mind. You’re going to be great.”

The room inside is grandiose. Roof to floor wooden paneling shrouds everything in a honey warmth. There are a couple of couches near the far wall, one of which seemingly occupied, and a coffee table that sits in front of it. You catch the slow glug of a water dispenser in the distance, nearest to a coffee station in preparation of the long night that lies ahead of you all. To your right is an open closet, then further still a bathroom. The room itself is dim, lights adjusted for a cozier feel. Intimate and fitting for the tracks that are to be laid today.

The same room, previously full of echoing laughter and vibrant conversation, fizzles into deafening silence as Steve leads you into the room, calling out, “Guys, there’s someone I'd like you to meet!” The announcement has every eye in the room darting your way, faces drawn tight to get a sight of the newest visitor. Only you’re not a visitor, because one of these men is about to be your new client. Steve turns to you then, hand lightly brushing your shoulder to nudge you forward as he says, “This right here is the new assistant, Y/N.”

A round of introductory greetings reach your ears, your voice full of certainty as you return them. “It’s great to finally meet you all.” However, you’ve yet to capture the elusive image of your client, as two of the band members stand closely together, obscuring him from your direct field of view.

Steve continues, “This is Gareth Parsons, drummer of Corroded Coffin.”

The first of the group steps forward. His shaggy head of brown hair flops as he moves, reaching forward with an extended hand in greeting. The warmth of his palm fills the space within your own, squeezing lightly. You feel a little bit of that boiling tension dissipate, the weight on your chest at the notion of a room full of new people unintentionally judging you lightening.

His voice is kind, edged with humor as he says teasingly, “Nice to finally meet Eddie’s new babysitter.”

The next band member makes himself known. He has dark skin, dark hair and lovely brown eyes, full of a kindness that has your mind easing further. Those same comforting eyes flash quickly to his bandmate, a stern flicker of his warm gaze resting on Gareth’s, the latter of the two huffing from his nose.

“Behave,” Jeff warns, voice a low murmur that has Gareth resigning to his defeat. That warm hand releases from your own and he steps back enough into the fold of the remaining members to allow Jeff to step forward. “The name’s Jeff. I’m on rhythm guitar and synth. It’s so nice to meet you.” He flashes you a white smile, and you can’t help the grin that blooms across your features at his easy acceptance of your presence.

“Thank you,” you say, truly grateful that the first two introductions have thus far proceeded smoothly. “Both of you.”

Seemingly pleased with how things are processing, Steve clears his throat. “So that’s Jeff, who you’ve now met. And then you’ve got Harry, who would be the bassist of Corroded Coffin.”

Harry steps forward, his hulking frame shadowing your own, to shake your hand. You lock your hand within his and he opens his mouth to work over the words he’s going to say when a voice cuts through the silence.

“The name is Harry Cox. And if you’re nice to him, maybe he’ll show it to you.”

“Eddie, fuckin’ really?” Jeff asks brusquely, whirling around in the Eddie Munson’s direction.

You’re not sure what to expect as the men shift and separate, bodies moving one by one to reveal the figure that’s so far remained hidden from your view. In theory, you’ve seen pictures of him. One would have to be living under a rock to not have come across a photograph of Eddie Munson somewhere. The infamous photo of the men standing around you, dated back to when they were teenagers, boyish frames huddled together in the halls of their high school before they had skyrocketed to fame at a trajectory no one ever anticipated; the clippings from not so flattering headlines showing his swift rise and downfall, leaving him on thin ice; the photos documenting his hasty nuptials to his actress wife. However, none of those compare to the intimidating figure that commands the presence of everyone around him as your hesitant eyes clash with his beneath the dark shroud of his sunglasses.

Your eyes settle on the dark swath of ripped jeans over coltish limbs. Black material stretches tight over sinewy muscle, thighs splayed out in front of him, scuffed Doc Martens thrown carelessly against the cherry wood of the coffee table. Your eyes start the slow crawl upward, tracking along black shirt stretched over his broad chest, with an equally dark leather jacket hugging his biceps. His arms rest over the top of the couch, a confident sprawl of elongated limbs against plush cushions. His face is almost feline, predatory and intimidating, most of the upper portion of his face obscured by those aviator sunglasses. The parts you can see are striking: lengthy, wavy hair that falls to his shoulders, soft and feathery against the leather jacket; those long fingers adorned with silver rings pushed flush against knuckles, broad hands covered in intricate tattoos; the pale skin over high cheekbones, an indent on his cheek that hints at a dimple if he weren't looking your way in disdain; full lips, soft nose, and the slightest hint of shadow along his jaw.

The Eddie Munson portrayed in the tabloids Angela had showed you over the years pales in comparison to the man that sits before you. This man oozes presence— owns this sort of magnetism that pulls the attention onto him in the center of the room with the mere sound of his voice.

“And that would be Eddie Munson, lead singer and guitarist for Corroded Coffin,” Steve explains, the arresting presence of the man sitting on the couch in front of you rooting you in place.

Gareth coughs out a quiet, “Resident douche.”

Jeff shoots him another scathing look. It’s enough of a distraction to draw your attention away from your new client, uneasy laughter welling up from you. Your stare drifts momentarily to Steve, his warm smile easing your tension, hand unfurling in front of him. The gesture has you faltering, understanding his intent is for you to make a proper introduction.

You shuffle your way toward the man, disregarding the way he barely even acknowledges your presence within the room. He’s not once moved, back pressing further into the curve of couch cushions, eyes peering up over at you through the top of his sunglasses. Dark and depthless, an endless swirl of ink, devoid of any emotion that might give you insight into how he thinks this initial meeting is going. You hear it then in the vestiges of your mind. A soft howl, nearly imperceptible—the whisper of wind in the distance, echoing in your ears. A warning, an insinuation of something to come. Still, your hand stretches into the spaces between you, left to linger in the open air.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Munson.” Your voice remains firm— unwavering, despite the fact that he dismisses your hand.

Jeff scoffs from beside you, head shaking slightly as his foot comes to shove Eddie’s off of where they rest against the wooden surface. They hit the ground with a dull thud, though Eddie’s posture remains lax, facade unwavering. “She’s talking to you.”

Eddie remains silent for a time, those dark eyes sliding up over the top of his sunglasses, voice hollow as he mutters, “You can call me ‘Sir.’” It’s innocent enough until the corners of his lips tug into a salacious smirk, fingers moving to push his sunglasses further up onto the bridge of his nose, head tipping upward a bit so he’s now level with your unrelenting stare. You worked with Jason long enough to understand this game, the ploy to see if you’ll break at the first sight of tension, and you’re not falling into that trap now.

You take a step closer, hand hovering in air untouched, voice unyielding. “I’ll call you Mr. Munson, or Eddie. Take your pick.”

Gareth chuckles at your left, but your eyes remain focused on Eddie in your battle of stares. Him, veiled through darkened lenses, and you in your refusal to grant him the satisfaction of looking away for even one moment and admitting defeat. You hear that soft howling again, a quiet whir in your ears, just as Steve claps his hands and a new man enters from the recording room, voice slicing the strained silence. “This right here is Argyle. He’s the producer and sound engineer working on this project. Today, the guys will be laying down the tracks for their latest album, so you’ll be here to take care of anything Eddie might need in the interim.”

Your head turns, breath catching at the unexpected arms that loop around your shoulder, fingers reaching up to press against the hawaiian print on his shirt, those long strands of his dark hair smooth beneath your fingertips. He steps back to take you in, head bobbing animatedly as he says, “Nice to meet you, my dude—dudette. I’m the king of this music castle here. Can’t say I’ll be of much assistance, but if you need anything, don’t be afraid to ask.” His greeting concluded, Argyle meanders back over to his seat again, contentedly rocking the swivel chair back and forth with his feet.

There’s a sudden creak of leather that draws your attention; Steve runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the waves as his gaze darts from you to Eddie, who’s now rising from the couch. Eddie cracks his neck to the side, finally pulling off the aviators and dropping them haphazardly to the coffee table, where they skitter before meeting the magazine stack beside you. You push the top one back into place with the tip of your finger.

“Call me if you need me,” your boss says, one broad hand landing on Argyle’s shoulder, crinkling the Hawaiian print. “Good luck,” he mutters, patting him twice before moving toward the studio door.

You aren’t sure who Steve had been wishing luck to, but since his parting words don’t seem to phase the producer, you figure they must have been meant for you.

The heavy door thumps closed after him, echoing through the silent room. You can feel almost everyone's eyes on you— the outlier, the new variable in this equation, the only one here who doesn't have a pre-existing role in the narrative. As your gaze darts from one man to another in the span of that brief silence, you see a variety of expressions: curiosity, pleasantness, neutrality. But only one expression truly matters, and of course, unfortunately, it’s the expression of the only man whose gaze is averted as if reluctant to acknowledge you.

You take a moment to study your client now that you can clearly see his face, and what you see does not fill you with confidence. Eddie Munson's eyes are large and brown and framed by long, soft lashes, but there is only hardness in his dark stare. The crinkled lines at their corners would be charming, but they're wrinkled in a critical squint, not with a smile. Instead, though his lips are plush and pink, they're twisted in a faint sneer as he gazes at the plexiglass of the recording room, decidedly away from you.

He means well, Steve had said. But you can't help but think that this man doesn't look like he means anything but ill will towards you, his new assistant. Despite the welcome from others around you, it's making those new-job jitters deepen.

In the middle of your examination, those dark eyes—very suddenly and unexpectedly— flick to yours.

It's an impact you couldn't have braced for. Instantly, a rush of prickling heat crawls up your spine as if Eddie is looking through you, past skin and bone and muscle, straight to your very center. It’s a look that pins you down, flays you open, leaving you entirely exposed in its disapproval.

Blessedly, because of the time you'd worked with Jason Carver, you have perfected your customer service poker face. There is no outward appearance of your inward reaction, aside from the dampening of your palms; smoothly, you run them down textured tweed in the guise of fixing wrinkles before clearing your throat lightly.

It does the trick. The room, which had been suspended in silence following Steve's departure, suddenly stirs as Argyle spins in the chair to face you all fully, folding his hands over his belly. “Well, all right, brochachos,” he says, nodding slowly, his long curtain of black hair swaying as he does. “You ready to record some shit?”

"Fuck yeah, dude," Gareth answers immediately, pushing up from his knees, an enthusiastic smirk splitting his face as he leads the way to the recording room. Harry follows next, his hulking form shuffling from behind the coffee table. He pauses before reaching you as if he's afraid to enter your space; you shift quickly, moving closer to the coffee table to make more room as he fits himself around you.

"'Scuse me," he mumbles, and the gentle baritone of his voice coupled with the tiny tinge of pink on his cheeks makes you smile.

"No, I'm sorry," you're quick to assure him, "I was in the way."

He smiles shyly back as he passes by you, pausing by the recording room door to let Jeff enter first.

Distracted as you were by the exchange, you’re hit with a tiny spike of panic when you realize Eddie has begun to follow them, seemingly with no intention to address you again. It would leave you adrift with no direction— no inkling at all of what you can do to assist him, especially as Argyle already said he won't be much help— and that makes you act hastily. Impulsively.

Your body tilts forward, jerking after him, and your hand flutters out of its own accord, stopping just shy from making contact with his jacketed elbow. Eddie stops abruptly as his eyes dart to you; he squints as his gaze flicks down to your outstretched fingers. Your cheeks heat as you feel almost chastised, but you don’t let your embarrassment show. Instead, you let your hand drop, looking evenly into his dark brown eyes as you ask, “How can I best assist you right now, Mr. Munson? Is there anything in particular you'd like me to do?”

His stare sharpens, plush lips curving in the whisper of a smirk. “You a fan, sweetheart?” He asks, voice gritty with smoke and a quiet smugness as if he already knows the answer.

You keep Steve’s words in your mind, his warning about Eddie’s potential flirtatiousness. The shift— from thinly-veiled disdain to this— is jarring, but you figure it's probably meant to throw you off. “Of you or of Corroded Coffin?” you ask, expression carefully schooled to neutrality. Eddie's smirk tightens at the corners, grows a little more defined, but you continue before he can respond. “If I’m honest,” you tell him, “I’m not really well-acquainted with your music.”

His brows jerk, and when his eyes scan down your body before returning to yours, they’re narrowed again. “Let me guess. You’re a TLC girl? A little Backstreet Boys groupie?”

There’s a heavy shade of judgment in his voice that tells you he isn’t really interested in learning the answer, only in confirming for himself that your musical taste leaves much to be desired. You can't deny that the implication rankles you. You bristle at the thought that he presumes to know you when you've only just met, that he considers you lacking before you've given any reason for him to. The injustice of it makes you rush hot again, but not with nerves— with irritation.

Still, you maintain that mask of professionalism. You don’t let it show. “No,” you reply evenly, meeting his gaze dead-on, unhesitant and unashamed to share your preferences. “More like Smashing Pumpkins. Hole, too.” You ignore how his expression suddenly glints with salaciousness. “Though I do also appreciate harder stuff. Like Alice in Chains, for example,” you add, following it up with a small, polite smile. And it's true— you do appreciate some metal, despite it not being your go-to. It's not as though you don't like Corroded Coffin's music on principle.

But this answer doesn’t seem to excite him. Instead, Eddie’s sharp gaze dulls slightly as you refuse to play into his game. “Right,” he says, expression easing for the first time. “Well then, I do have something you can do for me, sweetheart.”

Pet name aside, it's the most pleasant he's sounded so far, and you brighten, having expected him to put up more resistance. Maybe all you needed to do was show that you were truly here to help him.

"Okay," you say, face expectant as you await his instruction.

Eddie’s lips twitch up into a tiny, crooked smile. “You see that door over there?” He flicks his finger lazily toward one of two narrow doors on the far wall, set into the wood paneling. You nod obediently, and he leans in, eyes wide and brows tugged up, pitching his voice low and soft like he’s coaching you through something secretive. “Well, inside, there’s a box. A box of all our recordings. Yeah?”

He waits until you nod again, a little more hesitantly this time. “What you can do for me is go in that box and listen to everything inside. Every album, every EP, every demo. Even the shitty garage recordings. Even the b-sides.” He pauses, tipping his chin down. And though he doesn't raise his voice, its softness sharpens to granite. “Because I’ll be goddamned if my personal assistant doesn’t even know my music.”

Your face was too eager for him not to notice the way it falls, and Eddie straightens, putting distance between you as he stuffs his hands in his back pockets, elbows jutting in satisfaction. That ghost of a smirk returns as he pokes his tongue against the inside of his cheek, raising his chin and leveling you with one last look through his long, feathered lashes before he turns away.

His clear dismissal sinks into your chest, and you huff lightly through your nose, rushing with disappointment. Almost as if he can sense the crack in you, he whips back around abruptly; it startles you, and your spine straightens as you jerk to attention. “When we’re done recording, there’ll be a quiz,” he says, and the sharp smile on his face becomes a threat.

You can't help it— a bit of nervousness leaks through your expression then. That seems to finally please him, and Eddie releases you from his dark gaze as he, at last, joins his bandmates in the recording room. The sound of instruments tuning surges before the glass door thumps closed behind him, muffling to silence again.

Now left alone with your task assigned, you turn toward Argyle a little helplessly. He’s gazing at you with an absent smile on his face, still in the same position with his hands folded on his belly, seeming entirely unphased by the contentiousness of your new client. You exhale a quick breath, using it as a reset before asking him, “Can I get a pair of headphones and a Walkman or something?"

"Certainly, my little dudette." He points toward the same door Eddie had indicated. “There’s bound to be some somewhere in that closet.”

Lovely. You nod slowly, flashing a quick smile through pursed lips. “Thank you,” you say before turning and making your way over to help yourself.

The interior of the closet is lit by a single dangling lightbulb, and despite the polished fixings and thorough decor of the recording studio itself, this room is bare-bones in its furnishings. Metal shelving crowds the narrow walls, and the floor is plain poured concrete, barren compared to the plush rug in the lounge area. Your heels clack hollowly as you edge tentatively into the space, avoiding loose cords until you’re standing in the center of the tiny room, directly under the lightbulb. Your hands plant on your hips as you survey your surroundings: shelves and shelves of identical cardboard boxes, all unlabeled aside from an occasional errant number or acronym that means nothing to you, some stacked three high.

Of course.

It takes a good half an hour to finally uncover the correct box. Thankfully, though the labels on the outside are useless, the contents within are masking-taped with far more descriptive labels, written in a messy but still legible scrawl. When you open the box, seeing ‘CC’ on the top CD case feels promising, and a little shuffling reveals some hand-drawn album artwork complete with a coffin and bats that can't be for anyone other than Corroded Coffin. With the correct box secured, you pick your way back to the closet door, setting it down to begin your search for a Walkman, some headphones, and a tape player, since you’d seen a couple of loose cassettes in there, too.

You’re nothing if not thorough. No one can ever accuse you of not doing your job.

When you re-emerge from the closet, the recording room behind the plexiglass is not peaceful like you’d left it. It looks like a television set put on mute as you see Gareth’s hair whipping, Jeff’s shoulders swaying, Harry’s nose scrunched in a concentrated grimace, and Eddie’s lips hugging the mic, pink crawling up the base of his neck, its cords stretched tight with effort. You avert your eyes to Argyle, whose long straight curtain of ink-black hair sways with each bob of his head, his ears enveloped by an oversized pair of fancy headphones. Everyone seems to be moving in time with one another, rocking to a rhythm you can’t hear, and the utter silence in the room combined with those frenetic movements strikes you as comical as you carry your box and its contents over to the smaller couch, placing it on the cushion beside you.

As instructed, you dig out each CD and cassette, organizing them methodically in chronological order and choosing to begin with the oldest one. The faded marker on the front tells you it’s from 1986, and the marker’s haphazard scrawl matches the scrawl of sound that blares from the tape deck when you slip the headphones over your ears and depress the play button. The sound is tinny, echo-y as if it’d been recorded in someone’s garage. And you suppose it probably was. Judging by the year, you figure they were probably still in high school or not far from it when they recorded this.

The Corroded Coffin of 1986 is not particularly remarkable. The kick drum holding the beat isn’t quite precise enough, and the bass is somewhat sloppy. Not every transition is tight; sometimes a beat that should be synchronized is just a split second too soon or late, whether guitar-strum or cymbal-strike. But there’s an unmistakable energy to the sound— a fervor, an insistence that demands you pay attention. You can feel that pouring-out of teenage aggression through the growls and licks and chugging of the guitars, through the lyrics sung in that voice that, though it sounds higher and less smoky than the voice you’d heard from your client today, is still unmistakable Eddie. Corroded Coffin has something to say, and you can’t help but listen.

Your gaze drifts up to the plexiglass of the recording room. Your eyes see them as men, but your ears hear them as boys. And you can almost picture them in that garage, surrounded by brightly-striped lawn chairs and deflated pool floaties, youthful bodies jerking and swaying with no less enthusiasm than what you see before you now. When you think about it, it’s kind of touching to imagine them as young boys with nothing but a dream. Clearly, it took years of effort to become what they are now. You watch Eddie’s long-lashed eyes scrunch closed and his dark curls cling to the sides of his jaw with sweat, and a sense of wistfulness wells up inside you as you think of your client as that boy in the garage, a boy who didn’t know what he’d eventually make of himself.

You’ve only heard three songs before the play button pops up, signaling the end of the tape. Quickly, you move to the next two— more garage recordings, all short and sounding similar— before you’ve exhausted the cassettes and are ready to begin on the CDs. The first is marked as a demo from 1988, so you know it’ll likely be longer than what you’ve listened to thus far. You slip it into the player, settling back against the cushions as you begin, eyes wandering over the wood-paneled walls as you imagine Corroded Coffin recording it right here seven years ago.

It begins with the ticking of cymbals, the clatter of the snare, and the whine of a guitar. Much more polished than the garage recordings but so unmistakably eighties in its sound that you can’t help but feel your lips curl up in a little deprecating grin. Still, your foot bobs along, and you end up listening to half of it before your curiosity for more overwhelms you. You switch to their debut studio album, which is what that demo eventually became, and that same song— now track begins the same way— the ticking of cymbals mixed with a snare’s clatter, but you recognize the difference immediately.

This— this— is Corroded Coffin.

Eddie’s voice is grittier and deeper, and the band is tighter, and the addition of those grinding metallic sounds and the electronic synth parts, which have clearly evolved past that stereotypical pop-eighties style, create something truly special. You’d been truthful before when you told Eddie that you hadn’t listened to much of his music, but now that you are, you find it genuinely enjoyable.

Time passes. Argyle’s head bobs, the guys grow sweatier, and your foot steadily bobs until Pretty Hate Machine concludes. And you should move on to the next EP, but you instead find yourself skipping back, back, back until the disc whirls in a blur of muted blue and pink and the first track starts again. You close your eyes and allow yourself to get lost in it until a muffled commotion of voices and thumps rouses you. It’s the guys exiting the recording room, chests heaving, shirts tacky against their chests, looking tired but pleased as they converge on Argyle in a tight circle. You watch their faces light up with smiles and eager chatter, smiling yourself as they seem all of a sudden more boyish for it. Even Eddie, whose visage was once marred with disdain for you, is grinning toothily; as the joy turns his dark eyes amber, you feel a tiny pang low in your stomach at the sight.

Nuh-uh. None of that.

It fades quickly under your quick dismissal, smothered by a reminder of the pride you take in your professionalism. He’s objectively attractive, sure. But he’s still your client, and nothing would change that.

Before long, the group around Argyle disperses. Gareth and Jeff wander towards the couches while Harry stops at the water cooler, gulping down two fills of the plastic cup dwarfed by his meaty hands. You quickly move the cardboard box beside you to the floor and pull the headphones from your ears as you watch Eddie divert from the path, heading back into the recording room without his bandmates.

“What’s he doing?” you ask Gareth as he flops down, sagging against the arm of the large couch across from you. He shakes his damp bangs out of his eyes, flicking sweat that narrowly misses you before he replies.

“He’s laying down the rest of the synth parts for the most recent track. We have to record it separately.” His lips tilt in a grin as he adds playfully, “Ed might be talented, but even he can’t sing and strum and play keys at the same time.”

You find your interest piqued as Eddie folds himself onto the bench behind the keyboard. “He doesn’t need a break?” You watch as he stretches his back with a grimace before shaking out his hands, ruddy fingers turning to a blur.

Jeff just huffs out of his nose, drawing your gaze. His dark skin is shiny with the evidence of his exertion. “Oh, he needs a break,” he says, exasperated though his eyes are fond. “He just won’t take one.”

“Yep,” Gareth adds, “He’s a stubborn bastard. Won’t stop ‘til it’s done.” Gareth and Jeff each accept a tiny plastic cup from Harry gratefully, and you shuffle closer to the couche’s arm to make room for him next to you. You tilt toward him as he sinks down carefully beside you, but it doesn’t draw your eyes. They’re stuck on Eddie, on the look on his face as he nods at Argyle: focused, as if his fatigue is nothing to him but an insect to be flicked away. Argyle nods back, tapping a button on the complex board of switches and sliders in front of him. As Eddie’s head begins to bob, you realize what they just recorded must be playing in that plexiglass box, silenced from your ears.

Before you can overthink it, you rise from the couch, the muffled thumps of your heels shifting from thick, plush rug to clack against wood. As you come up next to Argyle, he remains gazing evenly ahead, eyes never wavering as his head bobs in time with Eddie’s. You’re considering whether or not to interrupt him when, without looking at you, he asks mildly, “What can I do for you, brochacha?”

“Are you able to play it out loud?”

Argyle glances at you then. “Alright,” he drawls, stretching out the word as if impressed. “You wanna hear the bitchin’ beats? Certainly.”

And with the push of a button, the once-silent studio fills with sound.

It’s a perfect marriage of grit and polish, evoking both the garage recordings and their first album in the best way. The distortion on the vocals makes Eddie’s voice sound even more imposing than it was in person when you first met him, and you watch his shoulders rock, brow scrunched tight. “This world rejects me. This world threw me away. This world never gave me a chance; this world’s gonna have to pay.” Eddie’s voice projects over the speakers, though his plush lips are motionless now. With such ease you almost don’t notice them, his fingers begin to dance over the keys, adding a subtle electronic melody beneath the drums and grating synth.

You can feel the tension of the song— the building of something carnal, something furious brewing beneath the surface, threatening to whip your hair back from your cheeks. Its energy builds and builds as Eddie’s voice goes almost breathy underneath the effects, singing, “Something inside of me. It screams the loudest sound. Sometimes I think I could…”

You sense it’s coming, and yet you’re not prepared for it when Eddie’s voice becomes practically a howl: “I’m gonna burn this whole world down!”

The guitars, the drums, the bass and synth— they all explode out in a whirlwind of thrashing sound and driving noise as Eddie’s body rocks, fingertips turning white as he forces sound from the keys. His teeth are grit, his face is pouring sweat, and the sight of it speaks to one thing: determination.

You can’t help but admire that.

You don’t even notice that your head’s been bobbing along to the beat until it ceases, and as you grow still, it whips to the guys at the couch. This song is better than almost all their others. If the rest of the album is like this… Your eyes sparkle with the force of your excitement as you beam at them, and in their pleased smiles and behind their eyes, you can see it: pride and confidence, knowledge that this album they’re creating is going to become something big.

That feeling is effusive, bubbling in your blood as the door to the recording room opens and Eddie emerges. His curly bangs are plastered to his forehead, his eyes are ringed by dark circles and his lips sag in fatigue. Yet despite it, from within, he’s positively glowing.

Caught up in the moment, all you can do is blurt, “Holy shit.” You blink dazedly at Eddie for a moment as his face goes slack, and then he tosses his head back and laughs.

Eddie’s laugh is husky and wild, unrestrained in his amusement. Utterly unfiltered. He laughs as if you’ve told the funniest joke he’s ever heard, and it’s then you realize this is your first day on the job, and you’ve just cursed in front of your client.

Your face fills with heat, cheeks burning as you stutter, “Mr. Munson, I’m so sorry, that was entirely inappropriate—”

Eddie snorts, waving you off, looking not only unbothered but positively tickled that you’d cursed in front of him. To give yourself a moment to recover, you spin, clacking toward the water cooler to fill up one of those little plastic cups like you’d seen Harry doing earlier. You stammer past your indiscretion, and as you focus on expressing yourself, you feel the burn in your cheeks begin to recede. “I shouldn’t have forgotten myself like that. But that song was just… I mean, seriously. It was like… like a return to your roots or something, but not just that.” You pass him the cup carefully, falling back onto your hip as you cross your arms and your eyes dart to the ceiling. You’re trying to put it into words, and you feel frustrated that you’re struggling to. “Okay. It sounded like those early garage recordings where everything was just raw. It’s gritty and angry and cathartic. But it also feels so… new. Like compared to your last album, but also compared to what other bands are doing right now. You know?”

It doesn’t seem entirely adequate, but that’s all you’ve got— all you can do to express that almost intangible quality that you felt but can’t describe. You finally let your chin drop to meet Eddie’s eyes and are surprised to see them no longer dark and shuttered or squinty with mirth. Eddie’s eyes are wide and bright, amber like sun shining through whiskey as they stare unwaveringly into yours.

"Yeah, you picked up on that?” For once, there isn’t a sharp edge to his voice; in fact, he sounds almost pleased. “With this album we're experimenting with something a little different, really trying to focus on the textures and moods. Trying to find ways to create sound that’s not music. Not in a traditional sense, at least.”

You nod eagerly, caught up by the enthusiasm in his voice. “Yeah! That’s it. I don’t listen to metal much, but it just doesn’t sound like what you typically hear nowadays.”

Eddie crosses his arms, holding his elbows as his tongue plays against the inside of his cheek. “You’re right,” he concedes, so easily that it comes as a surprise. “In a way, we are going back to our roots; all the way back to being the freaks who don’t want to be packaged up in some neat box. Especially seeing where this industry is going. Like, I’m watching bands that got me through the hellscape of high school crumbling and folding to the pressure. I mean, fuck.” A whip of sweat-damp curls as he shakes his head, his gaze heating with molten passion, pinning you so intently that you couldn’t look away if you tried. “Do you realize the irony of a genre that prides itself on being anti-establishment becoming part of the establishment?”

“Fuckin’ bullshit, man,” Gareth pipes up from the couch, and Eddie’s arm flies out, an eager finger shaking in his direction as his eyes go wide and almost wild.

“Fuck-ing bullshit,” Eddie enunciates, and as his voice roughens, he almost seems to puff up with the strength of his ranting. “Look, I do get it. They’re not the first to end up caught in the wheel; happens before you even realize it. But you know what you’re left with at the end of the day? Jack fucking squat. And we’re just as angry and powerless as we were as kids.” He jams two ruddy fingertips against his open palm, brows raised in emphasis as if willing you to understand. “This— this music was our escape back then. And it’s going to be our escape now. And I don’t give a fuck what anyone says about it.”

He’s nearly craning over you now, breath hot as it puffs against your face, face drawn tight with his fervor. But you aren’t afraid. Because though he’s nearly yelling, Eddie’s ire isn’t directed at you. Your expression doesn’t harden up or crumble under the weight of his passion; instead, you accept it, letting it whip against you without faltering.

Your steadfastness seems to temper him as the tension in his face eases slightly, though he doesn’t back away. More quietly, he says, “All they want is the next sound-bite, the next commercial success. Sorry, Arg,” he throws a glance toward his producer, “but I honestly don’t give a shit whether there’s even one song on this album that would be a successful single. It’s not meant to be consumed that way— picked apart like fuckin’ buzzards on a corpse.”

Eddie’s amber eyes hold you as he breathes, “This album is raw. It’s ugly, and it’s personal—”

His words choke in his throat, and for a moment, there’s something tentative connecting you, drawn thin between your gazes. Something fragile but nearly tangible, like the foam of the sea that bubbles against sand but melts to nothing if you reach for it.

But then Eddie blinks, and the connection is severed as he seems to realize he’s talking to you: his personal assistant.

His glorified babysitter.

All at once, the passion is gone. He flattens, taking a step back. And there is no preamble to the sudden switch in his demeanor as he demands, “Where’s our dinner?”

the next chapter will be released on @abibliophobiaa's blog!

🌿bluey's masterlist | 🌙luna's masterlist | 💌myo's masterlist

#blueywrites #i will wait #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fic #rockstar eddie munson #eddie munson rockstar au #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson x fem!reader #corroded coffin #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst #eddie munson smut #eddie munson soulmate au #eddie munson fake marriage #myos ideas

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sanctum-of-ramshackle · 7 days

Text

🔪🪓 GIVE IT UP FOR I.N.K.!🩸🎤

[TWST AU]: This MC/Yuu/[Reader] may have more than just fairytale magic.

[Synopsis]: In this timeline, MC/Yuu/[Reader] returns back from the “dead” and is ready to unleash their horror-based magic. Also to understand that they were resting for about 30 years.

[Gender Neutral!MC/Yuu/[Reader]]

[TW]: Mentions of murder, blood and horror movie depictions of violence.

[(A/N)]: Hi everyone. It’s been a while since I last posted any content here. Things got busy IRL and also put up some content on my main blog. I’m sorry I didn’t warn anyone about my sudden break. Anywho, I wrote another MC/Yuu variant twisted from Ice Nine Kills (the vibe of the band).

To begin this journey, there is a hidden grave deep in the forest behind Night Raven College. Nobody has visited that very spot as their families have either passed or moved far away.

The etchings of the tombstone reads…

“Here Lies [Y/N]/MC/Yuu [L/N]”

“You Left Too Soon”

“Therefore If A Miracle Happens, Doom Will Be In Tune”

Then one night as the Dorm Sorting Ceremony, a storm occurs with lightning striking down.

Then, a strike hits the unbothered grave, electrocuting the fencing that protected the grave from trespasser and the ground shakes as a resurrection happens.

[The ground cracks open as a coffin unveils its lid and reveals a well-preserved corpse.]

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu/[Reader]: *Yawns from their supposed eternal slumber* That was a long nap…Why am I in a coffin?

[The living corpse leaves their disturbed burial and walks aimlessly out of the forest, unintentionally leading themselves to the NRC building.]

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu/[Reader]: I don’t remember much, but this place…

[Then a voice boomed across the hall to grab MC/Yuu’s attention.]

Crowley: *From afar* You! Why are not at the ceremony?

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu/[Reader]: I beg your pardon.

Crowley: *Closing the distance between him and MC/Yuu* I asked what…are…you… *Stops dead at his tracks* You…How?

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: Old man, I don’t know what kind of ceremony is happening but I remember now. I’m already an NRC student.

[And so, after the ceremony ended, Crowley gathered the Staff members and explained they have a student returned from the dead. They weren’t pleased by this sudden information. In the meantime, MC/Yuu will have to start NRC again as a first year student and they were transferred to the infamous Ramshackle Dormitory.]

🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼

[At the Heartslabyul]

[MC/Yuu was invited by Cater as they joined back the Music Club and the MagiCam influencer thought they were cool.]

Cater: You got a new phone? Need help with anything?

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu/[Reader]: I still need help with the apps. How do you find movies on this thing?

Cater: I can teach you.

[Few Minutes Later]

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: Whoa! You guys released new horror films? It’s been years since I watched one. The last one I seen was some hockey-masked killer.

Cater: *Little concerned* MC/Yuu, when did you stop attending NRC?

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: Oh. Well…I guess around 30 years ago? Why asking, suddenly?

Cater: That explains why you asked what MagiCam is.

🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼

[During a Dorm Leader meeting]

Riddle: You’re explaining you used to attend Night Raven College 30 years ago?

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: Yeah, I used to be the president of the Music Club and still well versed in the darker side of magic.

Azul: What kind of magic you possess?

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: The kind if you can stomach the macabre world. The goriest parts of that field.

Vil: Necromancy, I presumed?

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: Sort of. It’s hard to explain about my magic, but all I know is it gets stronger when I perform music.

Kalim: Like it’s your Unique Magic.

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: Yeah, like that. Crazy how today’s people are using that term.

Leona: Still odd how you came back to life. You remember your old life?

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: I remember my family used to live on this island and the accident that happened in this school…

🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼

[Chapter 5: During the VDC event and Vil’s Overblot]

[Ice Nine Kills - Welcome To Horrorwood]

youtube

Epel: We need to distract Vil-Senpai.

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: Allow me. I know the perfect song.

[Then the stage is set for MC/Yuu’s performance. They magically summoned a dark dome to cover the entire stadium for the light effects and manifest some pseudo band mates to play the appropriate instruments. Finally, they summoned their cursed electric guitar to fend off the latest Blot battle.]

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: *Starts singing*

Ink fills the page

A classic killer completes the cast

If evil's all the rage

Cut to the close up, then fade to black

Sit back for the sequel of your dreams

All psychos crave more shocking scenes

Who cares if it bleeds beyond the screen?

Are you misunderstood?

Are you more bad than good?

Welcome to Horrorwood

Where anyone would kill for a call back!

[They casted some powerful spells to weaken Overblot!Vil. The rest of the gang starts throwing their spells at the corrupted Head of Pomefiore.]

'Cause everyone is just so fucking…

Desperate for fame

Can't blame the savages this town attracts

I guess we're all insane (Insane!)

So silence the critics, 'cause this is not an act

(But here's the soundtrack!)

Sit back for the sequel of your dreams

All psychos crave more shocking scenes

Who cares if it bleeds beyond the screen?

Are you misunderstood? (YEAH!)

Are you more bad than good?

Welcome to Horrorwood

Where anyone would kill for a call back

The tabloids say

"There goes the neighborhood"

But long live Horrorwood

The only place it pays to be a hack!

(But will you make the cut if you know?)

Stardom's just an afterthought

For all those stabbed in the backlot

Piled up and left to rot

“So how's this for an establishing shot?”

[MC/Yuu shoots another fire spell at Overblot!Vil.]

Are you misunderstood? (YEAH!)

Are you more bad than good?

Welcome to Horrorwood

Where anyone would kill for a call back

The tabloids say

"There goes the neighborhood"

But long live Horrorwood

The only place where everyone should

Fear the premiere

There's always a target out on the red carpet

Between 'Silver Screams' something's awakened

And you'll never make it

But enjoy the show!

[They perform an impressive solo-guitar play as they summoned restraints to trap the weakened Overblot!Vil in one place.]

Are you misunderstood? (YEAH!)

Are you more bad than good?

Welcome to Horrorwood

Where anyone would kill for a call back

The tabloids say

"There goes the neighborhood"

But long live Horrorwood

The only place it pays to be a hack

Be a hack!

Welcome back!

[After the song finishes, MC/Yuu holds up their guitar and brutally swings it at Overblot!Vil to dislodge the Blot stone.]

Vil: *Turns back to normal and groans* What happened?

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: You kind of went berserk and we had stop you from almost killing everyone.

Vil: I see. My head is aching, however.

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: Uhhh…You probably hit your head during VDC.

🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼

[Back in Crowley’s Office]

Crowley: *Shaken up by day one* I couldn’t believe they’re back…

“Dire, you wanna hang out today?”

“Dire, you forgot the assignment? Fine, just copy mine but change it up a bit.”

“Dire…You’ll regret the day I resurrect from my slumber. Heed my warning!”

???: CROWLEY!

Crowley: *Spooked by the outburst* IT’S NOT MY FAULT!!!

Crewel: Great Seven, you seemed out of your mind lately.

Crowley: Oh, I’m extremely busy, especially since their return.

Crewel: Oh yeah. They seem to be doing well with academics despite having to teach them newer materials. Their magic is what I fear about them.

Crowley: Yes, yes. Their magic hasn’t changed much.

Crewel: Dire, I heard that.

Crowley: It’s nothing. I’m just worried about the students.

Crewel: Uh huh. I’ll leave my reports here. *Leaves the office*

Crowley: *Suddenly scared* What if they remember that day?

🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼🪓🎶🔪🎵🩸🎼

[Cafeteria]

Ace: You murdered someone?!

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: I didn’t murder anyone.

Sebek: Then what is this?! *Points at the crimson stain on their shirt*

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: *Wipes it off and taste the content* Oh, ground beef. I was helping Jade and Floyd with some hamburger orders.

Jack: And you just licked it? Won’t you get sick?

I.N.K.!MC/Yuu: I’m undead. Nothing’s gonna harm me, again. *Bites into their extremely rare steak as some myoglobin leaks down from their lips*

[The First Year group felt fear of their new friend.]

✨[Reblogs helps creators and creates for more content]💫

#disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland #twst #twst au #twisted wonderland mc #twst mc #twisted wonderland yuu #twst yuu #Ice Nine Kills #I.N.K.#I.N.K.!MC #I.N.K.!Yuu #twisted wonderland headcanons #twst headcanons #twisted wonderland scenarios #twst scenarios #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #Youtube

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lostbetweenvampiresandmusic · 2 months

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Hi!! Could I get a poly!lost boys x male(or gn if you don’t do male) reader who sleepwalks? Just their reactions to it and a bit of humor, but also a little danger because the reader almost sleepwalks out of the cave during daytime? And how the boys would adjust things to make sure it never happens again?

Thanks!

I hope you like this!💜

-------------------------

"It's really becoming a problem," Marko sounded worried, which was unusual, to say the least. Paul sat next to him, his legs on Marko's lap. Even though Paul didn't speak, it was clear he agreed. "What if he walks out into the sun, and we don't notice it because we're all asleep as well?"

David nodded, leaning back in his chair as he sighed. Their mate, as much as they loved him, as much as they loved the fact that he changed, had a bit of a problem. Not a bad one, per se. It's not a problem in the sense of him changing wrong or him not being okay with being a vampire. No, it was in the sense of taking some human traits along with the change. Back when the boys had first met him, they first started hanging out with him, they hadn't known. It was only when they had invited their mate over to stay the night at the cave that this problem came to light.

He sleepwalked. Every night, like clockwork. Back when he was human, all they had to do was make sure there'd be no mess on the floor so he could walk safely wherever his dream took him. They did board up the cave entrance, but that was purely for his protection, so he didn't walk off of a cliff while sleeping. Now, as a vampire, this sleepwalking resulted in him walking and sometimes even floating around during the day - and the risk of him ending up in a stray beam of sunlight was getting bigger and bigger.

The three boys inside the cave looked up as Dwayne entered, quickly followed by their mate. The fresh stains of blood were still visible on his chin, some blooddrops stubbornly being stuck in his stubble.

"What's up, guys?"

"We need to find a solution for your sleepwalking problem," David said, causing their mate to shake his head a little and sigh.

"I've always done so, I don't know if it can be stopped."

"Then we'll have to find a way to make sure you'll stay safe," Dwayne gave him a soft smile. As the elder vampire sat down on the fountain ledge, the younger went to sit on the ground, between him and David.

"I mean, we can tie you up at night?" Paul offered, looking at his mate.

"I thought we agreed to keep talk of kinks in the bedroom?"

"You do realise we fucked on almost every surface in this cave?"

"Is that why the floor is so sticky?"

Marko laughed, throwing Paul's legs off of his lap. "What if we tie bricks to your feet, so you won't float away?"

"Why are the two of you so keen on tying me up?"

The two boys shrugged, grinning. "We're just into it babe."

"Yeah, I realise that," he laughed. "But no. How about you make sure there's no where to float to?"

"There are too many holes to be certain we've got to them all," David said as he lit a cigarette, throwing the package towards Dwayne. "In the long run, it will work, but until then, you still risk being burned."

"I think I can handle a sunburn though."

The four elder vampires immediately shook their head. "You'll burn and melt like a marshmallow dropped in a fire."

"What if we sleep in a bed for a while?" Dwayne offered as he lit his own cigarette, pocketing the package. "We'll notice if you'd get up, and with the four of us surrounding you, the chances of you getting up are slim anyways."

"See," their mate looked at Paul and Marko, "that what a normal, non kinky plan sounds like."

"You do realise you'd be on the bottom, right?" Dwayne grinned, causing him to groan.

"Wait! What if we start sleeping in caskets? Coffins? I mean, if it's a closed lid -"

"We won't find a coffin big enough for the five of us."

"Don't tell me you won't be able to sleep without me next to you, David."

"Fine, I won't."

The two vampires grinned. Outside, the sun began to rise slowly, the sky lightning already. "We need to go to sleep," David sighed. "We'll go with Dwaynes plan, find a better one tomorrow."

"I think it's a good plan!" Marko, Paul and Dwayne spoke simultaneously. David chuckled, looking at his mate as he pulled him close. "Or you could latch yourself to me tonight. You know I'd never let you go."

"If you were anyone else," he said, looking at David, "that would be a terrifying statement."

"I'm not anyone else."

"No, you're not," he gave him a soft kiss on his cheek before yawning. "But I don't care what the plan is, I know I am dead on my feet."

It was quickly decided that tonight they'd sleep on their bed, a huge piece of furniture that practically took up the whole room it was in. It was large enough for the five of them to sleep comfortably, but tonight, they all laid close to each other. Limbs were entangled, several complaints about boys laying on each others hair.

"Paul, your knee is in my stomach."

"Better?" Paul looked at his newest mate.

"No, you're-"

Paul moved a bit more, leaning closer to him, speaking in a teasing, husky tone. "We can still always try my plan?"

"You wish!"

#the lost boys #marko #tlb #david #paul #dwayne #the lost boys 1987 #tlb 1987 #star #the lost boys x reader

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kentopedia · 9 months

Text

it's been decades since you've last seen dazai; your lover & your maker. now that you're finally happy, he's haunting you again with a thousand buried memories.

overall contents. fem!reader, nsfw minors dni, exes to lover, gothic romance, blood drinking, vampire!reader, vampire!dazai, smut, cheating reader, complicated relationships, blood, gore, jealousy, manipulation, religious symbolism, betrayal, reunions — 6.3k words

PART IV ♰ MASTERLIST

The next evening came quickly, and for the first time in a long while, you were able to sleep through the day. Morning came and went, and the sun faded away without you lying awake, miserable, missing the light of day.

Although Dazai emitted no warmth, you still slept soundly on his chest, the feeling of his arms around you comforting in a way that was undeniable.

When you awoke to another starry sky, clouded over by a mist of smoke, the coffin was empty, and Dazai was gone. The thin blanket pooled at your feet, kicked aside, there for no other reason but for the semblance of a routine where you slept wrapped within soft covers. A beam of light sifted through the cracked coffin, lid pushed to the side, allowing the silver moonlight to caress you gently back to an air of life.

Sitting up, you pushed the coffin lid aside, swallowing the wave of regret that swam through your body. Atsushi’s gentle smile lit up your mind, and you shut your eyes briefly, trying to will it away.

This was a mistake—everything had been a mistake from the moment you’d found Dazai in that bar. It was a mistake to ever think you could drink from him without letting him drag you down with him. Never had you been able to deny yourself the indulgence of his lips, the taste of him so fond in your memories, and you’d been naïve to think this time would be different.

“You slept like the dead,” Dazai said with a cheeky smile, sauntering over to sit at the edge of the bed, staring at you from feet away. Your lips drew together, thin, unamused.

The shift in the air was palpable, the string of oxygen between you pulled tight. Though, you were grateful that Dazai was the one to break the silence, as you still mulled over something to say, observing the subtle little changes in his countenance.

For one, you couldn’t recall a time that he had ever looked so happy, so carefree. A brightness had resumed itself, as if only on pause for half of a century, erasing the resentment, the bitter hatred that had clouded it. The smile on his dark lips tugged upward easily, his eyes an ambered brown, rather than the black that they had once been.

Things were different—that much was certain. Whatever had transpired between the two of you couldn’t be erased, nor could you eradicate the guilt that had threatened to swallow you whole. The two options clashed against each other; a loss too great on both sides. At the end of it all, your feelings for both Atsushi and Dazai were overwhelming, and complicated.

But you couldn’t think, not when Dazai was so close. Not when you were a moth, and he was the flame, burning bright, and only growing more vicious.

“I need to go home,” you said, gathering your shoes, the clothes that had been strewn across the floor. “I shouldn’t have even come here.”

A beat of silence lingered in the room, settling on the hardwood floors, the soles of your feet, before Dazai stood, his footsteps not making a single sound.

“After all that?” Dazai asked, and though he would never let his surprise show so openly, you knew he’d believed you’d been won over.

That’s all it would’ve taken, back then—a few sweet words, your lips on his, gentle hands across your skin. But you were not the woman you’d once been, and though you were still weak, you’d developed some strength.

“After everything, how can you still doubt that we are meant to be together?”

You pinched your face together, wondering if you were a fool for running back to Atsushi. If your love for the mortal man was only a means to an end, a way for you to forget the clutch that another vampire had around your heart. How Dazai’s fingers could squeeze their way around your arteries, and you would watch, blindly, as the blood trickled down his palm.

Was it love or hate you felt? Of both, you were uncertain.

“Osamu,” you said, shaking your head, your gaze drifting towards the window. What a mess you’d made. “I need some time to think.”

That relaxed him; the tautness of his frame slowly began to melt away. “Time.” He nodded, dark hair falling over even darker eyes. “Okay. I can give you that.”

“I love him, Osamu.”

“You love me too. You can deny it all you want, but I know that you do.”

You looked over at him, blinking from under your lashes. “I don’t know what I feel for you. It was not so long ago that you destroyed me. I have hated you as strongly as I once loved you.”

His face twitched, fingers flexing at his sides. The age old tells of his anger, just as prevalent as the stars in the sky, never ceasing to appear at the end of every day. “Will you never forgive me?” he asked, clenching his jaw, tongue appearing in his cheek. “I have given you everything I have to offer. Your life… my life.”

“You haven’t given me patience, Osamu. You haven’t given me the chance to believe that your love is worth the pain that comes with it.”

Dazai looked away, chest rising and falling with the air he didn’t breathe, but made himself anyway, keeping up the appearance of a human being. He had always been so much better at that – perhaps it was the reason he had lived this long. No one had doubted his place in the world, had mistaken him for a monster, unlike the innocent lives that had been lost to such a slaughter.

“Is patience really something I can offer when you are to wed another? Surely your fiancé will grow weary of waiting,” he said, stepping closer, expression serious, devoid of his usual smugness. “You want time, but it is slipping through my fingers.”

“You have nothing left but time.” You shook him off, ignoring the pulsating need that thrummed through your body, never satiated, always wanting more. Your gaze flicked to his vein, then away, as you pushed past him, headed to the door. “Don’t come after me. I will not give you any more chances.”

Dazai said nothing, irritated, but he let you go, and you escaped into the dark haze of the midnight.

Your meetings with Dazai stalled for a few days, as Atsushi returned, and you were left with a muddled mind and a mix of contradicting thoughts. It was best anyway, you figured, to put some distance between you and Dazai, in order for you to work out exactly what it was that was going on.

Despite the conflict you felt within yourself—for wanting to love Dazai once more, for wanting to hate him—you didn’t entirely trust him. Years of memories pointed to a Dazai that was so similar, yet vastly different from the version he presented to you. One that was just as manipulative, conniving, yet held a loyalty and a steadfast love for you that had since been unbroken.

Though, love was easily faked, especially for someone like Osamu. You, with your weak heart, were probably falling right into his trap. How foolish you would be to leave a perfectly good life behind for a man that you could never fully trust, despite how much you yearned for him.

Yet, he never left your mind, always lingering like a curse. Some part of you wondered if there was a deeper magic at play, if maybe, the bond between you as creation and maker had tied you so intricately together than you would always long for him.

But you knew nothing of that…if magic existed outside of the bloodsucking demons that you had joined, if there was a world out there of other supernatural entities you knew nothing about.

Still, it would explain nearly all of your everlasting woes. How Dazai could fuck up time and time again, and you would still crawl back to him, albeit reluctantly. How you craved his blood like a brainless addict, sacrificing your pride for just another hit.

You hoped, if even a little bit, that that was true. At least, that way, you could explain your desperation for him without it being something as complex as love. Something that you could avoid, if you really tried, rather than letting yourself indulge, thinking that you couldn’t help it.

It was cold when Atsushi returned, the weather already growing fickle as autumn bled into winter. He looked better, his eyes brighter, his skin less pale than it had been when he left. His hair seemed freshly scrubbed, clean from a bath at whatever hotel he’d visited for the few nights of escape.

Though, under his softer complexion, you could see the weight that still rested on Atsushi’s shoulders, and the burden that he’d worn for the past few weeks.

Smiling, you watched as he walked through the door, trudging in his heavy boots. There was certainly more life to him now, now that he wasn’t constantly sent on missions, awake for hours into the evening, until his eyes ran bloodshot.

“I missed you,” you said, stretching your arms over to him, body reacting to him, just as it did Dazai. The joy that spread across you was warm, despite the lack of utter feeling that something lingered in your chest.

Atsushi relaxed, then, tension falling from his shoulders. Almost like he’d expected you to start the conversation a different way – a thought that you instantly sequestered.

“I missed you too, honey,” Atsushi said, leaning down to peck your lips, his hair brushing across your forehead. “Everything okay while I was gone?”

Words of a dutiful husband, lover, friend – despite that fact that anyone who could have possibly hurt you wouldn’t be fazed by the presence of a human.

“Everything’s been fine,” you hummed, ignoring the vision of you on Dazai’s thighs that flashed into your mind, your teeth digging into the flesh of his neck. “How are you feeling?”

Atsushi looked at you for a moment longer, memorizing each of your features after just a few days away, and put on a gentle smile. His fingers grazed the sharp hollows of your cheeks, the coldness of your skin sending a shiver down his arm. Goosebumps trailed along his flesh, the hair standing straight up, but he didn’t seem bothered. Not after two years of the same routine.

“I’m better.” The words held little conviction, though, and you couldn’t help but feel that there was something bothering him still.

Or you were just paranoid that he had somehow found out you were protecting Dazai.

Protecting.

Was that the word? You’d been trying to protect Atsushi, hadn’t you? By keeping him away from Dazai. Yet, the more you lingered on it, the more you began to question if that was even the case at all.

Atsushi kissed the wrinkle that formed on your forehead, and you held his hand tightly against your cheek, grounding yourself. How much better things would be if Dazai had left in the first place, if he’d just stayed far away, and never approached you at your party. Had never killed anyone in your town, overworking your partner and murdering your neighbors.

“I’m glad,” you said, instead of focusing on things that could’ve been. You brushed Atsushi’s hair away from his face, his hair so much softer than you remembered—cleaner. “You look better. I’m glad you were able to get some rest.”

“Yeah, well,” Atsushi sighed, shrugging. “Honestly, I’m not sure how much of a difference it made. I’ll just be heading back into work tomorrow. They’ve found more bodies, I hear. I’m sure I’ll just be back to where I was before soon. Everyone’s exhausted.”

You frowned again, pausing your gentle caress against the back of Atsushi’s palm. So that was what was wrong with him. You’d been so busy with Dazai, that you hadn’t even stopped to think that he was still killing people. It seemed you’d been caring for little other than yourself, these days.

“Good thing they’ve got their best detective back, then,” you said, trying for a more light-hearted tone. “I’m sure you’ll be able to solve this in no time, Atsushi.”

Still, he seemed unconvinced—but he kissed your forehead one more time, relaxing. He left you, then, to change out of his day clothes before sliding back into bed. It had been days since you’d last fed off of Dazai’s blood, but you didn’t feel so reckless, so hungry, that this sort of proximity left you with an aching need to bite Atsushi. Instead, you felt warm, consoled by his presence, and reminded of how gentle you could be, despite your nature.

“I love you,” you said quietly, as he slowly began to drift off, his breathing turning into a snore. “I hope you never forget it.”

A little laugh left him, but something about it seemed nervous—had you really left Atsushi to doubt your affection for him? Though, after all the things you’d done, you probably deserved that sort of karma.

“I know,” Atsushi said, humming, squeezing your hand under the covers. “Sometimes, that’s the only thing that I’m certain of.”

The memory of Atsushi’s words left a sour taste in your mouth that lingered as you slept through the day, a palpable anger tensing your body. The rage ran rampant through you from all of Dazai’s lies, promises that he had not kept. At the truth that he’d admitted before – that everything he’d done was to keep Atsushi occupied and away from you.

Dazai was not at the bar when you went the next night, and Atsushi worked late, still out when you left your home after sundown. And when you returned, with a hunger that couldn’t be satisfied by the gutter rats, your fiancé slept, soundly, hardly alert enough to hear your footsteps against the creaky floors.

You sat in the corner of the room, staring at the cracks of moonlight that brightened into orange rays, wishing once more that you could brush your fingertips along them, if only for a moment, to remember what it was like to be alive.

The routine continued. Anger consumed you, but Dazai didn’t return to the bar the next night. Or the night after that.

“Are you eating enough?” Atsushi had said that morning, the sixth day that you had gone without Dazai’s blood. You’d become irritable, snapping at him over the smallest things.

Digging your nails into your arm, the scarlet warmth dripping down to your elbow as you tried to distract yourself from the thrumming through Atsushi’s veins, you’d nodded and changed the subject.

You knew that you looked awful, and your promises were not believed by Atsushi. Your faded complexion was ghastly, inhuman. How easy it would be to give yourself away to others, for them to see that your humanity and morality was but a farce – it was much too obvious now, that you walked around looking like you’d just crawled out of the grave.

Dazai did not show up at the bar again, and desperately, you went to his hotel, hopeful that he had not moved.

It was loud outside of the building, despite nearing midnight. A crowd of drunk men loitered outside of the building, cheering their glasses together. They sang a plethora of songs in untuned keys, stumbling over their feet to get to one another. Women lined the streets, silk dresses with revealing necklines, smiling for men who would never be able to deserve them.

Despite the scene outside, the hotel was relatively quiet, many of the tenants asleep for the night. The clerk at the front desk seemed unbothered that you waltzed in, already headed towards the stairs, without bothering to speak with him.

You had been in such a disoriented state the last time you’d been here that you’d forgotten to look around, take in the atmosphere of the hotel. It was, really, a miracle that you’d even found your way there.

It wasn’t much on the outside, modest and unassuming, and the interior was anything but. Bright colors of gold and green that you only vaguely remembered from your previous visit adorned the inside, leather couches circling a vast library of books. A pair of older men, smoking cigars, fumbled over a game of chess, their shadowy eyes revealing that they were both desperate to call it quits. A young woman, perhaps the same age that you’d been when you died, perched in a chair, wearing a beautiful gown of rose pink, soothed a crying infant.

It was certainly with its’ grandeur, though that was to be expected, with the centuries of wealth Dazai had lining his pockets. You couldn’t imagine he’d stay anywhere less than impressive.

The man at the desk smiled at you in recognition, and you realized that you must have spoken to him when you’d last been here – or, Dazai had told him to let you pass if you were to come. Just another way you’d fallen into his trap, an endless scheme that was nothing more than a game to him. You were being played, not the other way around.

Still, you trudged up the stairs like a wounded soldier, surrendering. The rage had settled deep within your chest, flattening. Even with the betrayal that encompassed your memories of Dazai, you would always turn into a different sort of person when you were hungry.

Before you could regret your actions, you knocked on the door, once, then again, running your hands along the smooth skin of your forearms. There was a noise from inside, a soft sort of giggle, before the door opened, revealing Dazai, eyes dark, but a smile on his face, nonetheless.

“There you are,” he said, closing his fingers around your wrists, pulling you through the threshold before anyone could see you. He seemed to be clouded over with affection, or lust—but of which, you weren’t certain. “I was wondering when you would show up.”

He kissed you, then, soft, and gently, the way that Atsushi greeted you when you returned home. It was too loving, the quick peck of Dazai’s lips, and you scowled, drawing backwards, the irritation resurfacing.

“Osamu,” you said, sharply, creating a clear division between you and him. “I told you –”

But the words died on your lips when you glanced behind him, noticing the pretty, young woman that was perched on the end of the bed. She laughed again, cheeks flushed red under her tanned skin, dark hair flat across her shoulders. The woman gave you a small little wave, not in the slightest embarrassed, as her eyelids fluttered shut.

You blinked, drawing your gaze slowly away from her, back to Dazai, who was still grinning, teeth glinting in the moonlight, predatory and wicked. His expression was a clear vision of all the reasons you should have stayed far away from him, why what little trust you had for him would continue to rise and fall, until you’d gone so many steps backwards that you would be right where you had been.

“What—” But you stopped yourself, trying to gather the right words, to not sound like a jealous fiend, while still demanding answers.

Dazai, to his credit, and all of his promises that things were different this time, did not give you a chance to finish your sentence. “It’s not what it looks like,” he said, gesturing back towards her, before licking his lips. “I’m not… Not like that.”

You stared at him; eyes hard as you searched for a lie. But he’d always been so talented at dishonesty, and you had never been very good at sorting the truth out of fraudulence. “Then what is it? You’re bringing your dinner back to your room now, for no reason? How do you plan to get rid of the body, Osamu? You’re going to have to leave, you know. Someone could see.”

Though, that thought should’ve made you happier, you realized that you almost sounded disappointed, that you were helping him, when you’d been telling yourself to expel him from your city for months.

Dazai rolled his eyes. “Relax. I’m certainly not worried about any of the detectives in this town,” he said, the jab at your fiancé not going unnoticed. “I’ve thrown them off my trail enough times at this point.”

You frowned, wrapping your arms around yourself in protection as Dazai led you forward, a heavy hand on your shoulder. “Besides, she’s not for me, darling.”

The words took a moment to sink in, as you stared at the woman, so peaceful, unassuming, despite everything that she’d clearly heard. You could hear her heart beating under her skin, the color in her cheeks so bright and warm, nothing even close to death. Long breaths escaped her, and she smiled at you, so sweetly, that for a moment, you were considering –

Before the reality of the situation dawned upon you, and you jerked out of Dazai’s hold, away from the young woman, and slapped your former lover across the cheek.

The sound resounded through the room, but the force did little to even jerk his cheek. He stayed still, amused, and held your wrist loosely in his palm once more. “Would you listen—”

“I don’t feed off humans anymore,” you said, your words sharp, eyes narrowed angrily. “I promised myself two years ago that I would not, and I have been true to my word. Yet, here you are, the vilest creature I have ever set my sights upon, trying to lead me back down a road that leads to nothing but emptiness.”

Dazai blinked, before erupting into a fit of laughter. “A tad dramatic, even for you, my love. This is but a manifestation of your very nature as a vampire.” His gaze drew across your features, the way your hunger was evident in the curl of your fangs over your lips, your arms wrapped around yourself to keep from lunging at the poor woman. “You cannot deny the hunger that you feel—”

“It’s wrong, Osamu,” you spat bitterly, thinking of your mortal fiancé back home, who would not deserve this sort of end. How easily he could’ve been the one lured to the wolves’ den by Dazai, sitting on the bed of a vampire, none the wiser to the fact that he was to be someone’s dinner. “I was once a human too, was I not?”

Dazai laughed once more, mocking you, this time. For clinging onto the little bit of humanity that you had left, even after all this time. “As was I. But how long has it been since you were human?”

You said nothing.

Dazai crept closer, eyes like a hawk, so sharp and pointed along every line of your body. They flashed a deep ebony, drowning out the sweet caramel colors that always lingered in his irises. “You have always deluded yourself, and you continue to do so.” His fingers were back against your cheek, like long, protruding icicles, against even your icy flesh. “You feel so much better when I’m the one doing the killing, that you can’t see that drinking from me is just as bad as doing the killing yourself.”

Your jaw slackened, falling open, and, despite your better judgement, you let him draw his fingertips across your lips, softly smiling at the delicate feeling of them. “What do you mean?”

“I kill twice as many humans to keep up with your ever-increasing appetite. You might as well have done the deed on your own.” Dazai drew the words out, bored, waving his hand dismissively. And though you had to have known that, could feel in the deepest depths of your soul that that was true, you’d been all too happy to ignore it.

To continue on believing that your choice to use him as a blood source was for the benefit of not only you, but the humans you refused to kill, to bleed to death.

Dazai pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, the feeling of his lips, a touch so sweet, sending a shiver down your spine. “You can feed from her without killing her,” he said, drawing you closer and closer to the woman, though you felt stiff as your regret whirled under your skin. Dazai held you to his chest, and you let him, basking in the familiar touch, the familiar hatred and love baked into one emotion that had always confused you.

“You won’t stop me,” you said, mouth moving, though the words didn’t entirely feel your own. You stared at the girl over Dazai’s shoulder, who seemed in a drunk daze, Dazai’s manipulation working against her. “You’ll say you will, but you’re a liar, Dazai.”

“I will. I’ve stopped you before, haven’t I?” he pulled back, meeting your eyes, brushing your hair away from your face. “I promise.”

You began to object, to remind him of how little his promises meant to you, but you could feel the hunger multiplying, it’s claws deep inside of you. It felt like a physical force on its own, and you couldn’t remember a time when you had been so at its mercy, except when you were first reborn, a foolish child with Dazai’s blood coursing through your veins.

And though you wanted to hate him, to blame him for all of your troubles, to call him nothing but a deceiver, you wondered if he really had been telling the truth. If all your years of rejecting human blood had turned you back into the version of yourself that you had not been in a century, of a young vampire who had no control in the face of human blood.

“I’m stronger than you,” Dazai said, following the line of thought in your head, swiping his fingers across the wrinkle there. “It will help you. You won’t crave my blood so often.”

“It won’t taste as good.”

Dazai laughed at the small pout that puckered on your lips, and though you had meant to only think the words, they slipped out anyways. He kissed the frown away, startling you, and yet, you kissed him back, if only for a moment.

“I know it won’t, sweetheart.” Dazai licked his own lips, savoring the taste of you that remained. “But it’ll be better than those rats you’ve been eating, won’t it?”

Always so persuasive, that sharp tongue of his. How easily he could get you to cave with the promise of something so divine, and the lustful glint that coiled in his eyes. You held onto the single shred of morality that was slowly dissipating as you contemplated his sincerity. Then, you let it go, released, and nodded.

Satisfaction curled across Dazai’s expression, and he pulled you over to the bed, the woman, blinking up at you from under her thick lashes. She smiled, almost playful, and another giggle escaped her. “She’s prettier than you promised.”

Dazai, eyes glued to you, softened. “Isn’t she? There’s no one else quite like her.”

For all your resentment towards Dazai, you felt the curl of warm satisfaction spread across your chest, and you glanced away bashfully, hating how he still looked at you with such love. How hard it was getting, every day, to ignore the fact that, maybe, everything he did really was for you and you alone.

“Sit beside her, my love,” Dazai said, leading you to one side of the bed, guiding you into a seated position. Your knees brushed against the human’s, and she pressed it closer, tilting her head away to expose the vein that protruded along her neck.

“Osamu—” you said, glancing up at him with doubt. “I will kill her if you don’t stop me.”

“I know.”

“And if you don’t stop me, I will hate you forever.”

His smile widened, a grimace almost, but he acknowledged that with a nod, and waved his hand, urging you to continue.

You dragged your gaze away from him, back to the impatient woman, who was far too excited for you to slowly drain the life from her. She placed a soft hand on your thigh, the warmth seeping through your skirt, a reminder of the life she had swirling in her veins.

It was enough to propel you forward, and you breathed along her collarbone, ignoring the annoying pang of your heart that wished it was Dazai instead. Your fangs sunk into her neck, and the blood rushed along your tongue, down your throat, a flash of white snapping across your vision.

The thoughts drained from your mind, and you were no longer inside yourself, losing your senses in the sensation of the blood, and how warm it felt in your mouth as it settled in your body. Your fingers curled around her shoulders, and you dragged her closer, hearing a soft little moan leave her mouth as you sucked your lips harder.

It was nowhere near the exhilarating rush of Dazai’s blood, but it was warmer, more satisfying, similar to the fullness you’d received after eating a slab of red meat as a human. You weren’t tethered to the girl like you were your maker, but it was different getting the fresh human blood from the source.

You felt stupid, silly, for always rejecting the need to drink from mortals, when you could remember how good it felt. That was all it would take for you to not feel so empty, day in and day out, only longing for the days when you had never cared at all. It seemed nothing more than a daydream – those days when you were just as bad as Dazai, who had always killed and enjoyed it.

“Enough, my darling,” Dazai said, pinching your jaw, slowly coaxing you off of the woman, careful not to tear her throat while your teeth still latched on.

You tried to push him away, a deep sound reverberating in the back of your throat, but Dazai thrust his slit wrist in front of you, the smell overwhelming, better than the scent of the woman’s sweet blood and perfume.

“I have something better,” he smiled, running his hand over the top of your head as he stood before you, looking far too godly in the silver moonlight. “And I kept my promise, didn’t I?”

You didn’t answer, too busy swallowing the large gulps you had taken of his blood, softly kissing the skin that had broken there. Your nails curled into his forearm, pulling him close as his palm rested on the top of your head, fingertips lightly scratching against your scalp.

“Dazai—” the girl began, and though you were irritated that he’d even told her his name, the blood soothed you as it rushed down your throat.

“Thank you for your generosity, my dear.” Dazai said to her, in that deep, soothing voice of his that he used to compel humans. “You won’t be needed any longer. Go downstairs and forget any of this evening even happened.”

In a trance, the woman left, woozy, still full of laughter as she stumbled across the floor. Her hair had fallen from the clips, dress strap slipping off her shoulder, but Dazai didn’t bother to tell her. Instead, when you came off of his wrist, a gasp expelling from your lungs, Dazai pushed you back onto the bed, crawling over you, kissing all over your face.

Your eyes shot wide for just a moment, before you relaxed into him, threading your fingers through his hair, let him taste his own blood on your mouth. His tongue darted across your bottom lip, swiping the blood that had gathered there, before he moaned, the sound a vibration against your skin.

“Fuck,” he said, coaxing your hands from his scalp, pinning them to the bed. You could feel him straining against his pants, his clothed cock brushing up against your thigh. “The things you do to me.” Dazai kissed up your neck, across your jaw, lacing your fingers together. A soft sigh left you, and you let your head rest delicately on the bed. “I love you,” he whispered, just beneath your jaw, words so gentle that you began to believe them.

You glanced up as he backed away, hair falling down over his forehead as he stared at you, caressing your cheek. The haze of his blood still consumed you, but you felt so light under his hold, like the burdens of your entire life could fade away entirely from his touch. “Osamu,” you began, kissing his fingertips, though the smile didn’t pull entirely on your face, too uncertain.

He sighed, and then sat up, his knees still on either side of your hips, a frown furrowing his features. You crawled out from under him, kissing his cheeks, his nose, before he pushed you back, running his fingers through his hair.

“What’s the matter?” you said, reaching for him, even as he evaded your grasp.

Dazai sat at the edge of the bed, his hair mussed, expression vacant. He didn’t answer your question immediately, and swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

You laughed, dizzy, as you crawled over to him. “What do you mean, Osamu?”

But once again, he evaded your touch, standing, stalking to the other side of the room, holding only a loose rope on his anger. “I miss you. So badly. I want you; I love you, but I don’t know how to make you come back to me.” He glanced at you, and you could see the hurt in his expression, before he sat at the table, arms crossed over his chest. “My blood… does that to you, and it makes me think that maybe, things can go back to the way they were before.” He sighed, dropping his head. “Instead, everything I do just seems to make you hate me more.”

You blinked, feeling discarded on the bed, and you slumped forward, before making your way to your feet. Your dress had wrinkled, and you smoothed it back out, straightened the straps, fixed your hair. Still, Dazai wouldn’t look at you, and you were struck by his vulnerability, the earnestness in his expression. “I just—” you began, but you had no idea where you were planning to take that statement, too focused on the cloudiness that lingered in his gaze. “Osamu…”

“Go home,” he said, jaw clenched, before he looked up at you, his features schooled into another neutral position. “You don’t know what you want right now.”

You frowned, fingers tensing at your sides before you relaxed them. “That’s not fair.”

Dazai glared. “What’s not fair is the fact that you only want me when I give you my blood. What’s not fair is me loving you with every ounce of my being, for centuries, only to find you again with a human. What’s not fair is—”

“You’re not innocent, Osamu,” you said quietly, lip quivering as you tried to think rationally, but you just couldn’t. Every part of you was pulsing with need for him, and though it had never been a problem when you were together, it was a problem now. “You hurt me. I’m trying. I don’t know how to forgive you, but at least I’m trying.”

He stared back at you, an entire minute passing before he spoke again. “You have always been the same as me. Always as awful as you want to claim I am,” he said lowly, sniffing back his indignation. “Every horrible thing I’ve done, you’ve done too. The blood on my hands is on yours also. For every woman I took to bed, you took twice as many men.”

You wrapped your arms around yourself, aching, as you looked away. “You left me to die, Osamu. You left me. The vampire hunters came for us, and –”

“God,” he laughed, darkly, shaking his head. “Even now, you don’t believe a word I say. You think, I would’ve left you?”

“Didn’t you?”

“They told me you were dead. Everyone. I came back for you, but you were already gone. I mourned you for decades. And now I’ve found you again…” Dazai trailed off, realizing that you were staring at him curiously, the feeling of drunkenness slowly evaporating from your conscious. “You know what… It doesn’t matter.”

“Really?” A bitter laugh came out of your throat. “You never tell me anything,” you said pointedly, hugging yourself tightly and turning away. “Every time I think I understand you, we take one hundred steps backwards.”

He glared, jaw tight, though fleetingly. The tension smoothed back out, and he sat tall, looking bored, and annoyed by your very presence. “Would it make a difference?” he asked, shaking his head. “You’ll continue to hate me, just because it’s easier.”

You blinked, lips parting briefly before you decided not to even argue with him. Around and around you’d go, at the end of the day, talking each other in circles until you’d gotten so lost, you couldn’t even remember where the conversation had started. “I suppose.”

“Then you better go home. The sun will start to rise soon. I don’t think you’ll want to spend another night here.”

For a moment longer, you watched him, waiting for any slight change in his expression—and when there was none, you turned, and headed towards the door. As you pulled it shut behind you, escaping into the dim hallway, you took one look back at the old vampire, the man you didn’t want yourself to love. But he was ignoring you, easily, his gaze fixated on a point on the opposite side of the room.

You frowned and let the door latch shut.

PART V

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